


Red Velvet Blues

by Bunnysharks



Category: OneShot (Video Game)
Genre: Bad Humor, Explicit Language, Height difference, I can't believe I'm actually writing this oh god kill me, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Overworked and malnourished plight, Reader has no defined gender, Reader is not the God, Reader-Insert, Sort of slow-ish burn, There's gon be fluff, headcanon heavy, maybe some feels idk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-09-16 00:47:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 37,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9266327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnysharks/pseuds/Bunnysharks
Summary: You must have passed by each other at least a hundred times in that booming, crowded city.  He’d stopped by on numerous occasions, but neither of you had really gotten a good look at each other- there was never any time. You found it a tad difficult to pry yourself away once you did, however.He soon found himself facing a similar plight.(EDIT 7/23/18: Okay, seriously, I swear I'm working on this project again. It's not dead- sure as hell looks that way, but it's still in progress, kiddos!)





	1. The Accident

**Author's Note:**

> You'd better be proud of me for the pun I used for the summary, you little shits. ;n;
> 
> ... You thought I was kidding when I said I'd do it, didn't you?
> 
> I'm surprised this got encouragements to write, even. It started off as a joke, but I found myself having a lot of fun writing the concept, so... uh, you know. ;;;;

Going headfirst into a retail job was quite possibly, one of the shittiest decisions you’ve ever made in your entire life, and the list of said shitty decisions had been depressingly long to start with.

Not that it had been much of a choice for you, of course.

The bills weren’t going to pay themselves and you had to support your impulsive spending habits somehow- and your education level didn’t exactly land you a job that the rest of society would have viewed as ‘respectable’, not that any of it mattered much to you. Cash was cash, after all. 

You did sort of drive yourself into that corner back in your younger days, admittedly, when you thought it was nothing but a cheap joke when the professors had told you that your performance in high school would have _literally_ determined the entirety of your future.

Suppose with the education systems being terrible due to the ever-present issue of crowding and the lack of a solution to resolve that, it shouldn’t have come off as that much of a surprise.

...But it was a job all the same, in the end. It made ends meet and provided you with enough leeway to actually shop for yourself with such delightful frequency that you were, quite honestly, content. Sure, your lifestyle didn’t necessarily reflect the shallow opulence a baby boomer’s paradise, but you lived comfortably enough to where you could remain satisfied with the status quo.

The rent was considerably more lenient than you had initially expected when house hunting. As it turns out, the price had dropped a gracious margin since a good portion of the catwalks had collapsed. Perhaps that was the only real grace those usual square infestations that dotting the Refuge would ever offer. Since getting to and from the complex would have been a hassle to begin with (because it was about 40 stories high,) you decided you may as well just take the offer. Within the next few days,  you were finally out of your parent’s cramped basement and into an apartment of your very own- no more weird smells! Well, maybe.

...It was too bad the last of the catwalks on your floor had just snapped off just yesterday and into the crimson depths below- and hopefully not on top of some innocent sap who’d been walking below.

Said skywalk was precisely the reason you had been running late for work today.

Had it not been for the unfortunate plunge of Ms. Chapp from Room 404 down the hall just last month, you’d have considered pole-vaulting your way across the gap and to the elevators if it meant shaving a few minutes of time off  your hurried crusade to work. Now, you just stay away from the damn things like everyone else. It just wasn't safe. 

The sounds of the wailing city had long-since grown deaf to your ears, every window and building booming forth in vibrant shades of red.  You wove skillfully past every human, robot and object-head that had littered the streets, politely ushering yourself between throngs of people and chirping the occasional apology if you bumped into someone- or something. Skid-proof shoes shuffled quietly against the cold pavement as you swiped a finger across the glass screen of your phone, checking for the time.

Christ. You’re supposed to be clocked in within the next 10 minutes.

Your frantic jog through the Refuge quickly malformed into a mad dash straight down the lamplight boulevard, breezing past the rows of phosphor lights and their dim glow, hovering in the air like wisps amidst the chill of the glimmering city. You hadn’t even noticed that quite a number of the posts had already been extinguished, the shadow beneath it’s dead weight darkened as though a foreboding nod towards the inevitable.

A familiar pressure began welling up in your chest, sharp pangs of pain pumping further through your lungs with each breath drawn.  You mentally cursed your pitiful physical condition, gravely disappointed that even the looming threat of termination failed to circulate enough adrenaline through your veins to at least crawl your way to work.

Your breathing grew ragged, fingers brushing back the hair from your eyes. You’d have to fix it upon arrival, the thought occurs, your pace diminishing to a weakened jog as your eyes swiveled over to the wide opening on the righthand-side of the street, wedged just in between two buildings.

_The alleyways._

You typically avoided that place. Hell, most people did. There was no business to be had there and God only knows the kind of shady folk who crawled around within those garbage-caked pathways. There could have been more squares, gangsters, goblins- rabid foxes!

Well, you were probably exaggerating. It just stank horribly and sometimes, someone’s undergarments would flutter off from the web of laundry lines overhead, flapping ominously down from the darkened skies and whapping right into your face. You learned the hard way that only SOMETIMES were those articles of clothing properly washed. You're wracked with a violent shudder by the mere thought.

By force of habit alone, you check your phone a second time. 5 minutes left.

_Fuck it._

You valued your job considerably more than staying eternally withdrawn within your comfort zone, and swiftly veered over to the right. An abrupt shouting had rung through your ears right before you’d turned your heel, your body freezing in place.

_“W-Watch out!”_

Your mind does not process the warning quickly enough for your body to react accordingly.

The shrill and familiar sound of smashing glass erupted just next to you, panic seized in your chest as you feel something warm and liquidy splatter across your uniform and seep its way through the fabric.

_Oh, for crying out loud. This day couldn’t have possibly gotten off to a shittier start._

_...Wait, better not jinx that._

Your hand impatiently ran across the speckles of phosphor, fingers gliding above the neon-pink constellation that had now unwelcomingly bloomed across your crisp, white shirt.

_Well, this was fan-fucking-tastic._

Phosphor stains were not only notorious for being a colossal nuisance to remove from clothing, but this had been your one and only uniform top. You’d have to drop some cash to buy another, and now it was almost guaranteed you’d be reprimanded by your manager for coming into work like a complete slob.

 _“Oh shit,”_ a clumsy tenor breathed out _, “I’m so sorry!”_

A familiar lamplighter gazed over at you, wide-eyed and horrified with the aftermath of his tactlessness. His eyes bore down steadily and unblinkingly at you, regarding you in a way one would when gawking at an animal they’d rammed to death with the bumper of their car.

He had been clutching onto the hooked pole for dear life so tightly that his knuckles had turned white, almost patiently awaiting for some sort of backlash. His cherry orbs dart apprehensively around the ground of the perimeter, as if an escape from his chagrin were scrawled somewhere on the pavement.

“I-I can pay to have that dry cleaned, if you want,” he began nervously, the in-cohesive string of words tumbling forth from his mouth.

You trembled quietly in your spot, rationalization taking the wheel once more and steering you down the fact that this man was _probably_ in a more unfavorable position than you were, given how quickly you were able to discern his scraggly attire.

You knew who the lamplighter was. Almost everyone did, actually. He’s stopped by the diner before, though the most he’d ever order is an entire pot of coffee (which by the way, you’ve seen him take shots straight from the pot at 200 degrees, which was a downright impressive if not excruciatingly painful feat), and if he was having a particularly good day, an order of pancakes. You weren’t certain if he didn’t have either the time or money to sit down and have a proper meal on other visits.

Maybe it was both.

You exhaled deeply, nails stiffly digging into the ruined fabric of your shirt.

Somehow, you managed to keep calm. There was no time to even consider scolding him or calling into work to notify the staff that you’d be late. You needed to scram, and fast.

“It’s fine,” you said curtly, finally gazing up at him and the soft lavender of his hair. You hadn’t noticed how tall he was.

“Don’t worry about it,” you hastily cleared your throat, averting your eyes upon the realization that you’ve heedlessly sized up the man and his patchwork splendor, going as far as killing those precious seconds for another piece of something you’ve already seen before. He doesn’t take his eyes off you for a single moment.

Well, that got a lot more awkward.

“I gotta go-” you squawked uneasily, pivoting on a heel.

“No, wait!” he urged, reaching out a hand against your shoulder in a gesture both parties knew well was a fairly daring push.

“Please, uh… please don’t report this to the administration office,” he hastily retracted his hand, gulping. “I can take it out of my next paycheck, really! Please don’t tell them, I-I really can’t lose this job, and-”

He continued frantically and in that perpetual tone of frenzied assurance, striking to you a few ideas of just how much his employers must have been yanking him around.

You held enough of both pity and respect alike not to throw him under the bus like that. It wasn’t as if you knew where the office was, anyways- not to mention that you had been a steadfast believer that all industry and retail workers should always stick together. Birds of a feather flock together! Or something like that. Hell if you knew.

“I won’t,” you urged with a strained smile, stepping backwards and wedging a distance between the two of you. “I’m sorry, but I really need to get to work. I’m already late,” you called before spinning ahead into the alley, vaguely hearing an incoherent bark from the man that disappeared into the cityscape behind you.

It wasn't like you'd never see him again. The city was a lot smaller on the inside, so the probability of crossing paths with him with him was frankly, very high.

You supposed the thought should have been comforting, really.  
  
So why did it only serve to make you anxious?

 

* * *

 

You lithely turned the sharp corners and hurdled over the toppled trash cans with a display of athleticism only _you_ could consider applaudable, nearly tottering over a dismembered robot arm in the process of it all. Who the hell was leaving robot gore all over the place? You didn’t have time for this. The manager wasn’t going to buy the “Sorry boss, just I tripped and twisted my ankle when I ran over a decapitated head,” when you show up out of breath for work. You've tried that before.

Then again, it was possible he shook it off as an implausible excuse because you had failed to specify it was a _robot_ head. You were both surprised and mildly concerned that he chose not to press further and ask questions. Hmm.

You repressed the urge to check your phone for the time. You didn’t want to know- and it felt significantly better that way. Resigning yourself to the inevitable fate of a late time-punch, you barreled down the avenue of various street vendors and gradually slow into a fatigued gait, finally catching your breath as you nudged the diner doors open.

“Oh, hey-” a coworker spoke up, smiling lazily up at you from behind the counter. Their eyes lingered upon the pastel mess smeared on your shirt, their eyes burning a hole.

You ran a quick scan of the lobby, counting out the amount of customers in your head- which ones had already been served and which still hungrily browsed the menus. There were about 3 rushes that wracked the establishment each day, and your shift began just after the first two had ended. It was a Thursday, no curveball would have been overwhelming enough to make the day stressful.

Perfect.

“I’m borrowing your apron,” you ordered with conviction, quickly tapping in your employee code into the monitor before pushing past the double doors.

Styling your hair in the back office, you tied the apron securely onto you and looped the string around your waist, double-checking your reflection in the mirror. At least hereditary luck had generously bequeathed to you such a doll face, that was half of the reason the customers rarely lost their patience with you. The other factor was because you knew how to maintain your sickly-sweet facade with deadly precision, a cute smile and lilting voice went far in assuaging the customers- and netted you killer tips on top of that. It was all about how you presented yourself- something you had picked up awful quickly in the retail world.

Feeling dauntless enough to take on the day (such as it was, lack of sunlight and all), you strode out onto the lobby and tucked a handful of menus beneath your arm and began the act all over again.

You wondered if the lamplighter will stop by.

...You supposed you should prepare the coffee, just in case.

 


	2. Graveyard Shift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHY ARE YOU GUYS ENCOURAGING ME FOR MORE PLS DON'T CONDONE THIS

Work had been unexpectedly busy that evening.

Well, what _should_ have been classified as the evening. The clock had read 9:17 with the PM illuminated in bright, neon pink, but the lack of sunlight had only made the act of telling time a complete chore to accomplish. Even with an internal clock, a good portion of people wound up rising at ungodly hours. _Wake up, it’s 3:24 AM! Have fun trying to tell the time of day with no sun, loser._

You’d have thought years of fumbling in the phosphor’s luminescence would eventually ingrain itself into the clockwork system within your body, but that never wound up being the case.

You only had time to check the clock once.

The deplorable amount of orders had just kept on coming, but at least it served as a good enough distraction from your thoughts.

Half a year of practice had sharpened your dexterity to a knife’s edge, expertly maneuvering about the room with an entire tray of dinner entrees and side-dishes occupying both hands. It was difficult to believe there was a time where you couldn’t even leave the kitchen without breaking a platter’s worth of water glasses onto the floor, but those days were behind you.

**_Smaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaash!!!_ **

_What the fuck?_

You guessed thinking about your past clumsiness had bounced it onto someone else. After courteously serving the last table the remainder of their order, you speedwalk over to the kitchen in the back where, you spot the new girl hunched over the many shards of broken glass and spilled water, utterly crestfallen.

“Jay?” you started, baffled.  “What are you doing?”

It was a stupid question, yes, but you didn’t see anyone else making the effort to help.

“I-I was getting water for the family in table B12,” she sniffed, wiping her hands clean with her skirt apron. You quirked an eyebrow, throwing the seating screen a glance. You can't recall seating a family there, and you had been micromanaging _several_ tasks because some of the crew members had conveniently called out.

Luck was just NOT on your side, today.

“There’s no family in B12,” you answered with reluctance, reaching for a nearby broom, “Just one of the factory scientists. Please don’t try cleaning that, you might cut yourself.” The order came out as more of a friendly suggestion, but you hoped she’d get the message if you just started sweeping around her.  
  
Jay had been hired last week, and was the first of the Glensfolk the establishment has ever had as part of the staff. Her demeanor was bubblegum-sweet and her cheerfulness could have easily outshone even the sun, so she quickly topped the ranks as the new crew favorite. The only real flaw with hiring her was that she wasn't capable of reading or writing. _At all._

This was apparently a common thing in the Glen, the illiteracy.

You’d heard on the news about the oncoming surge of seawater that had begun swamping the Glen , pushing the poor folks further and further inland. They’ve lost an incredible amount of farmland to the sea, and more and more began migrating to the Refuge in hopes of finding new opportunities and a chance to escape from... basically, drowning.

While the inability to read or write in the common language threw a wrench in the plans of most businesses, quite a few industries made the feeble attempt of proving how anti-racist they were by hiring them, regardless.

“You shouldn’t be serving tables already this early into your training,” you sighed, not even remotely surprised that the other employees had been careless enough to allow for the girl to accidentally break protocols. “You’re just the busgirl for now. I’m supposed to help teach you how to manage order-taking next week; who’s seating the customers?”

“The serverbot, I think… It got busy, s-so I panicked and asked him to help me,” Jay frowned, rising up off the floor and dabbing the water that had splashed onto her skirt.

You were more surprised the serverbots were already programmed to obey such a new member of the staff. They disregarded your orders for an entire month and a half before your ID was properly programmed into their memory data. _Thanks, guys._

You reassured her to best of your abilities, and gently instructed her to return behind the counter and command the robot to wait the tables. Jay quietly nodded in comprehension, ocean-blue plumage bouncing as she hop-stepped back to her original post.

Now you just had to get this mess cleaned up.

* * *

 It was well past midnight when the dinner rush had finally trickled to a placated stop.

You were covering Jay for her 40-minute break; God knows the poor girl deserved it. It wasn’t as though the stress of it all hadn’t weight on your nerves, either- and you felt daft to even consider that today might have been an easygoing day.

If anyone had taken note of the unceremonious pink slather on your uniform, nobody had filed a complaint. The apron had covered most of it up, so only the acutely perceptive or nitpicky would have really been able to notice.

Scrutinizing the room for any customers, you dove over to the booth in the farthest corner of the restaurant when you were positive the coast was clear. One of the first things you learned in your time here, aside from the obvious server tasks, were all of the camera angles and their corresponding blind spots.

You knew what you could get away with, and where to stay tucked away in the perfect spot to remain unseen. The only prominent issue with that, was that other people on shift would notice after some time that you’d eventually gone missing. Funnily enough, being under the radar made you more of a suspect.

You curled up against the seat, leaning your head down against the table tiredly and in the hopes that you might be able to settle for a quick nap. The tabletop was pleasantly cool against your forehead, taut muscles slowly uncoiling from the stress of the previous rush as you spaced out.

The shift was about halfway over, and there was a noticeable decline in customers once you hit that point, at least. Just about the only foe left on the battlefield was sleepiness, and that was a war you had often lost.

Tucking your knees in, you began to absently swipe across the phone screen, inspecting the various apps and games that you hadn’t checked up on since the previous ‘morning’.

You’d been so absorbed in that singular, mindless task that you hadn’t heard the doors open. All of the serverbots had already retreated to the back office until another influx of customers were detected, so the task of seating and taking orders was, for now, entirely your responsibility.

You didn’t know how long he’d just been standing there.

It was there in front of the counter where the lamplighter stood, shoulders hunched, sunken eyes brooding over the emptiness of the restaurant.

_...Did he always look that that?_

You swung your legs from off the seat, sliding out and hustling over behind the booth. He flinched in the corner of your vision as you approached, drawing out a laminated menu from the compartment within the restaurant podium. Eye contact was attempted to be made as per the customer courtesy regulations, but he was particularly adamant about keeping his gaze away.

 _“Good evening, welcome to the Red Velvet Diner,”_ you began with a well-rehearsed chime that nauseated even yourself at times, “Table for one?”

You suspected the answer, but making assumptions was one of the worst possible things you could do in a retail job. Besides, you never really know what’s going to happen. Maybe he could have a date coming sometime soon- it’s not like you knew a damn thing about his personal life.

“Er… yeah,” he nodded densely, trailing wordlessly behind you as he soon found himself herded into a booth. You could spot his seat easily from behind the front counter and the through the kitchen doors alike, so maintaining close watch on him wouldn’t have been extravagantly difficult.

“Anything to start with?”

“Just… coffee, please.” he struggled a bit with his words.

You toyed with the idea of asking him if he wanted the entire pot, but you had touched upon a strange sort of boundary with the lamplighter earlier this evening. Even the relationship between customer and employee became sort of muddled with the suffocating awkwardness the two of you had generated around each other.

“I’ll brew a fresh pot right away,” You insisted warmly, sauntering off into the kitchen where the platoon of unused coffee machines awaited.

You went about the usual procedure, dumping the grounds manually into the filter before you strolled back out onto the main floor, wiping down a few tables and pretending to make yourself seem at least somewhat useful beneath the observant eye of the camera.

Every minute or so you checked up on the lamplighter, glancing over in his direction in the case that he needed something else. You caught him hurriedly tearing his gaze away every time, however, the situation growing increasingly uncomfortable on your end. He was staring so ardently into the table that you half-expected it to just burst into flames, and you wondered if the boredom was really that agonizing.

Meandering back over to the counter, you plucked an old, dusty TV remote from the lower cabinet and pressed the power button. The wide-screen mounted against the rightmost corner flickered softly to life, displaying with time the headline of **_“BREAKING NEWS: Squares Take out Main Phone Towers in Sector 4,”_ ** further highlighting the succulent mood of the diner.

_Wait, what?_

You fished for the phone in your pocket, tapping rhythmically against the screen before you saw it.

_There was no service._

Seriously? You'd just been messing around on your phone earlier and everything was in perfect working order. Had this happened literally in the past few minutes?

It wasn’t as if you were expecting any important calls, but this opted you out of a lot of useful things right off the bat.

The worst part was, you doubted any of this was going to be repaired soon at all. Those damn geometric douchebags had been tearing the city apart for years now, and the Refuge had begun to deteriorate more rapidly once the sun had extinguished. They’d been breaking off pieces of the city at such a devastating rate that nobody could keep up with the reconstructions. Even the scientists down at the plant had abandoned hope of stitching the place back together in favor of preserving the few key components that kept the Refuge alive.

The phone tower was one of them- and that was another asset lost that you weren’t certain you’d get back soon; if it all.

Lingering onto the thought was doing a little more than simply dampening your spirits, but you were never one to wallow for too long. It was better not to think about it. The coffee had been ready for a few minutes now, anyways.  You whisk away the full pot and one of the biggest mugs you had stocked in the diner, making your way back over to the table where the man had now been slumped over in his seat, appearing a few notches mortified than he had previously been.

You gingerly poured the coffee into the massive mug, noting with some amusement the way his eyes remained firmly transfixed onto the object. They were reminiscent of a cat’s eyes, glimmering with a hopeful sort of curiosity that struck you dumb.

You somewhat spilled the coffee as a result.

“Crud,” you gulp, setting the entire pot down onto the tabletop and whipping the rag from your back pocket, wiping down the mess. “I’m sorry about that,” you stammered apologetically, too scared to look at him for a reaction. Maybe now you were even for your stained shirt? Well, that was probably a cruel way to look at things.

“No stress,” he mumbled quietly, almost consolingly.

“I’ll just… leave the pot here for you. I made too much, so…” you trailed off, unable to pry your eyes away from the broken sight of the man.

You supposed you’d never once really gotten a good look at the lamplighter before, aside from the diluted shades of violet that swept across the field of your vision when you’d briefly crossed paths with him on the busy streets.

He was an unshaven man, the bulk of his scruffy, unkempt hair veiled by the patchwork cap nestled atop his head. His coat had been tattered in various places, and hung loosely from his shoulders in a fashion that had befitted him far more than you’d consider conventional, almost as though it had been tailor-made specifically for him. You could readily recognize just how thin he was beneath all of that fabric, however; a bag of bones barely scraping by enough nutrients to drag himself out into the world.

Funny thing was, there was no possible way he was that much older than you were. Maybe a year or two at most, but the morbid exhaustion he wore had masqueraded this fact. You recognized the traces of youth, it just seemed to slip away from him.

What had struck you the hardest, however, were those eyes of his.

Like flawless rubies, it’s cherry shine diminished by some unseen weight that made itself apparent in every movement his body had produced. It was as though he’d been despairingly tarnished, a deep-set enervation that had drained every drop of life from his weary frame.

To shrug it off that he was simply “tired” would have been a disrespectful understatement. While it was not your place to discern just what the issue was, you felt obligated to offer a solution to the problem, whatever it may have been.

He had been staring emptily out the window this entire time, but his eyes swiveled back over to you and the prolonged silence that had been beating you senselessly over the head.

_Shit shit shit. Say something, genius._

“Are you ready to order?” you forced out, a strained smile curving onto your lips.

The lilac-haired man stared back at the table, contemplating something with an expression that could only be best describe as pained.

_“I don’t have enough on me, right now. So it’s… fine.”_

You weren’t sure if you’d just been imagining it, but something about his voice had changed within the past few minutes since you’d last spoken with him.

Concern slammed into you.

Maybe you could get away with sliding some toast his way- something small the management wouldn’t notice when they counted the inventory.

“I can grab you some dinner bread, maybe garlic or sourdough if you want,” you suggested helpfully, gauging him for a reaction.

The lamplighter freezes, clearly doubting the authenticity of your offer.

“Don’t you have to charge for that?” he inquired, looking very wary with the exchange.

“I’m allowed to make exceptions.”

“...Really?” he pressed again.

“Mhm,” you paused, glancing about the room.

 _“But will you snitch on me if I do?”_ you hummed, the corners of your mouth curled into a teasing grin.

He shook his head vigorously, expression brightening considerably.

“Then we’re fine,” you smiled triumphantly, turning on a heel back into the kitchen. “It’ll be right out.”

 _“Thank you-”_ you heard the man call out in desperate gratitude from behind you, right as you start up the toaster. Maybe two of each will do. You could get away with at least that much. Maybe discount the coffee, too, but you’d definitely raise questions if you didn’t charge him a thing. Damn.

While waiting for the toaster to warm, you could hear Jay’s petite footsteps echo closer and closer to your location. Wow. Was she really back already?

“Hey,” you beckoned the avian  over as she pranced out from the break room, “Can you do me a favor?” she nodded, the lone feather atop her head flouncing.

“When this bread is done, can you bring it over to the dude? He shouldn’t ask for anything more, probably, but just call one of the bots if he does,” you instructed, checking your phone for the time.

“Sorry about this,” you exhaled, “But I’m 2 hours behind on my 40 minutes. My feet are killing me.”

“Oh, totally,” she chirped merrily, “I’m sure I can’t drop it if it’s just bread, after all!”

Did… that actually correlate with anything, at all? You’ll never understand bird science.

“You know the drill, Jay. Just holler if it picks up, and I’ll go back out to help.”

“Will do!”

You were grateful you had just left the pot with the lamplighter; imagine the horror if she tried to pour it herself and she’d tripped, drenching the poor man in hot coffee. Those would at least be 2nd degree burns, since the regulations here were a little shitty regarding coffee-burn lethalities.

Marching out into the shabby old break room in back, you seat yourself against one of the folding chairs and resume fiddling with your phone apps- wait.

You didn’t have any service.

_God fucking dammit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... didn't even plan to make it this long, oops
> 
> B-But hey!!! More interaction!!! I really should try and shorten things up, ahaha. Red Velvet is the name of the diner, since the "red" color theme is prevalent and... idk I like the way it sounds, honestly?? I hope I'm characterizing Plight all right, all I really have are headcanons a friend and I made up, and what little art of him I could scrounge up as backup evidence.
> 
> This was originally going to all be in one chapter, but it was just too much. It'd be straining on the eyes too, so I'll just roll it up into the next one.


	3. Downtown Daze

“ _H-Hey! Please, wake up!”_

Plush feathers brushed lightly against your skin when your heavy eyelids finally flutter open, a marine-blue silhouette cast overhead.

“...Jay?” you mumbled, sluggishly lifting your head from out of the makeshift pillow you’ve made with your crossed arms.

_Oh, shit. You’d just completely passed out on your break._

The metal chair clattered noisily as you scrabbled back up to your feet,  the drowsiness beginning to clear away from your muddled thoughts as you get a proper hold of your bearings.

“How long was I out?” you managed a groan, blinking away the sleepiness.

“Um… about an hour, I think. I wasn’t going to bother you until after you came back, but you never did, so I…” the waitress trailed off, peering apprehensively around the room as if someone had been spying.

 _“I’m 20 minutes late for punching back in?”_ you interrupted with a start, scampering out the room with a flustered Jay tottering behind in close proximity.

“W-Wait, please! I need your help with something,” Jay chirped tensely, feet pattering daintily behind you. “It’s about that man you told me to deliver the toast to,” she began, and almost immediately after that sentence you began processing through the potential list of god-awful things that could have transpired in your absence.

He didn’t hit on the poor waitress, did he? That scumbag.

“What happened?” You tested, a little fearful of the answer.

“I think there’s… well,” the birdkin was having an apparent struggle to formulate her words, fidgeting with the embroidered lace of her apron. “I guess you should probably see for yourself.”

That didn’t sound like it bode well _at all_.

The two of you traipsed back into the dining room, the idyllic tranquility of the empty diner ever-present, that was, until your eyes cast themselves over to the booth where the lamplighter had been seated. Any previous qualms you had against him regarding eating-and-running were quickly put to rest, but you weren’t quite sure if that was the preferred alternative to _this._

You could almost immediately tell something was off judging purely by the way that he was positioned. While indiscernible at a first or a passing glance, a few solid seconds of staring had finally alerted you just how unnatural this situation was.

The man’s shoulders were slumped with his arms limp at his sides, yet his body had been seemingly propped upright in his seat. His head was tilted slightly to the front, giving him the appearance that he’d been dozing off. While the angle of his sunken head was not jarring as you’d expect from someone who looked as though they’ve passed out, it still felt… off. He resembled a marionette with it’s strings cut.

You shot Jay a very boggled, intimidated look. She nodded pitifully in response to this.

“We didn’t clean the coffee pots with bleach again, did we? I swear, if we just poisoned this guy,” the thought came out far more malicious as it was uttered from your tongue, but you knew that likely wasn’t the case.

You weren’t sure the restaurant could handle _another_ lawsuit. Ever since the iced caramel mocha incident of 22XX, the Red Velvet Diner had earned some notoriety for clumsy servers and their inattentiveness in watching exactly WHAT they pour into their drinks. The main reason you were hired was because nobody else wanted to apply for a position.

Regardless, there was only one real way to find out just what the issue was.

You ambled on over to the still frame of the lamplighter, wordlessly analyzing the situation that had been sprawled unpleasantly before you. Only crumbs had remained atop the plate where the toast had once nestled, the coffee mug drained of it’s contents and the nearby pot approaching a similar state of being.

This was certainly new. The lamplighter had _always_ finished his coffee, leaving so much as a single drop behind was extraordinarily uncharacteristic of him.

His head dangled low as if ducked, the faint sounds of his steady breathing alerting to you that thankfully, life still flowed freely through his veins. So he wasn’t dead; that was definitely a good start.

While that did an exemplary job in alleviating a gracious portion of your concerns, there was still the current matter at hand to deal with- _getting him up and the hell out of here_. While the diner was open 24 hours, yes, any present individual who has not or possesses no intent of ordering was considered loitering and therefore, needed to be removed from the premise.

As the most experienced server in the entirety of the establishment at the given moment, it was completely up to _you_ do deal with the situation accordingly. Whether you liked it or not, you had the wake the poor guy up and get him to go home.

“Excuse me, sir,” you began, cautiously approaching as though you expected him to just lunge right at you.

No response.

The space between the booth and yourself closed with each step you took, second thoughts almost immediately starting to wrack you with an ardent uncertainty.

Tentatively you placed a knee onto the seat, occupying the space beside him as you gently placed a hand on the lamplighter’s shoulder, proceeding to shake him lightly.

 _“Sir,”_ you attempted a second time, the undercurrent of steel laced within your tone. Again, he was devoid of a pertinent response.

You took a quick whiff of the air around, suspecting he was a potential alcoholic and simply had a little too much to drink. Given the gloominess in his walk and the lethargic fashion in which he shambled about from place to place, that wouldn’t have honestly surprised you. You’ve seen the after-effects and what it’s done to people, and guiltily considered the idea. The odor that wafted its way up to your nose, alternatively, was unpleasantly musty and tinged with the unmistakable stench of metallic works and aged phosphor. You narrowly suppressed a violent cough.

He didn’t reek of alcohol (surprisingly, given how physically and emotionally taxing this profession must have been on him), so you supposed it was safe to cross that one off the list.

Leaving him here wasn’t a probable solution, unfortunately. He needed to wake up one way or another and be out the door before the opening shift comes in- or else the manager was going to have your head.

The lamplighter responded feebly to one of your nudging sessions as you tried to rouse him from his coma, his crimson orbs peeking out hollowly through the thin slits between his eyelids. He stirred only somewhat from his unconscious state, but made no further indication that he planned to arise.

“Are you alright, sir?” you inquired, eyes ablaze with the hope that you might actually be making progress.

“Ngh,” he gurgled flimsily, tilting his head upwards to try and discern whatever had just torn him gracelessly from his dreamland.

Vermilion eyes locked with yours, lucid and unthinking. _It was almost paralyzing, his gaze._

“You passed out earlier,” you began nervously with a clear of the throat, linking your hands together and avoiding further eye contact. “Do you have any relatives that live nearby? I can try get ahold of them so they can pick you up-”

The sharp deflection of the realization cuts you short, the idea withering rapidly before you even finish.

_The towers are out. There was no service._

You pluck the cellphone from the pocket of the apron, sheepishly investigating if it was possible that maaaaaybe a backup signal had been raised in the short time between the news flash and the unscheduled naptime. The chances were impossibly small, and you weren’t even sure that was how cell phone service worked. Probably not- but it never hurt to check.

Nothing had changed, unsurprisingly. Goodie.

Reverting your sights back to the lamplighter, however, you found he’d just passed out yet again in his spot.  The worker had been splayed inelegantly in his seat, his hat capsized beside the seating to reveal the soft, tousled magenta of his hair. As disorderly as he appeared in that given moment, it was almost...

_Well, you'd daresay it was almost charming._

You know, in that irrevocably awkward, baffling sort of way. Yeah, that made fucking sense.

...This lamentably only further spelled trouble for you.

You shyly shook him awake again, a tad distressed that you’ve willingly skipped a few steps in civility for this singular task. “Please, sir. Where do you live, I can hail a cab-” you glanced helplessly over to Jay who’d been standing rigidly in place, gawkily surveying the entire spectacle as though it were a comedy skit. Interpreting the frustrated motions you made nudging towards the outside, she hurriedly scuttled out the diner and onto the streets, presumably to find a cab if she’d been even remotely tuned in.

The lamplighter sinks further down into his seat at such a rate that you had to physically hold him up to restrain him, otherwise he risked sliding onto the floor completely.

Things were getting more awkward by the minute. You bet the morning shift managers were going to review the security tapes the following day and laugh their pudgy little asses of about how you had to deal with this- great.

Thoroughly exasperated with the conundrum you’d been forced into, you slink into the adjacent spot besides the lamplighter and keep him propped upright with a shoulder, doing your honest best to ignore the smell he exuded. God knows when was the last time he showered, but you didn’t exactly hold it against him.

If they guy didn’t even have time to sleep, it was unlikely he had time to do anything else, too. To be deprived of such a basic human need was disgustingly cruel- you had half a mind to report this to the unions were it not for the fact that you may have been indirectly placing the lamplighter at some form of possible risk with their employers. You didn’t really want to be held accountable for any probable repercussions, so the plug on that idea was pulled prematurely.

Still, this entire ordeal was incredibly troubling to dwell upon. You’ve gathered enough clues from this one run-in alone to discern that the primary issue was far more than just advanced tiredness or a direct aftermath of sleep deprivation, but you couldn’t quite put your finger on it. Couple that with the implications of malnourishment, you had a recipe for disaster.

_How the hell were you even going to do this?_

_Relax; think. You needed to think._

Waking him up continuously in the hopes of keeping him conscious was not the proper way to go about this- that much was true. It’d have been a fruitless effort given the drastic extent of his exhaustion, and you were a little too timid to persevere such a direct and unhelpful plan of action. You judged his approximate weight based on how he leaned against your shoulder, warily prodding him with an elbow.

...Damn, he wasn’t nearly as heavy as he looked.

You surmised you could actually prop him up with a single arm if needed, though you didn’t quite like the picture this painted in your head. So he was both dead tired _and_ perceivably lighter than a man of his age and appearance should have accordingly been-something akin to pity bubbled deep in the pit of your stomach.

Jay poked her head from behind the door of the diner, waving eagerly over to you with her feathers ruffling mutedly beneath the flourescent glow of the lights. “I got the cab for you,” she chimed melodiously, that resplendant grin lingering on her face. As much as you loved her smile, she’d been a bit too mirthful than the situation had suitably warranted.

...The fare. You were going to have to pay the fare.

You rummage around the contents of your apron, fingers brushing past the cold condiment packets and towards the buried wad of bills from the day’s tips. You’d been in too much of a rush to grab your wallet earlier today, and this ditzy mishap was just now coming back to bite you in the ass. You hurriedly count out the bills and silently perform the mental math in your head- struck by the disheartening realization that you didn’t have enough to make it to the closest police station or the municipal hospital. Each were well over 20 miles away, and you weren’t capable of squeezing an answer out of the lamplighter to know where would have been the optimal location for him to be dropped off. While the drive would be short, walking to either of the two spots would take hours. Like hell you were going to bother with that.

This potentially left you stranded with two options- neither of which were agreeable.

The first option was the more callous of the two- you could always just leave him here to be someone else’s problem. The opening servers would have no choice but to expel him back onto the streets, but this choice would not be without consequence, regrettably. Your shift wouldn’t end for another two and a half hours- so the cameras would plainly see that you’d just left him there unattended.  That’s not something the management would let you get away with- and the severity of the fallout wasn’t necessarily something you could predict.

The second option, which you dreaded substantially more than the other- _was letting him crash at your place for the night._

There were a near-infinite number of things that could go horribly, _horribly_ wrong with this idea from the get-go, not to mention how morally wrong it could have been interpreted by others.  You’ve watched far too many crime shows and psychological horrors not to predict that a gory or otherwise unsavory fate may befall you if you chose to do this. What if it turned out the lamplighter was a serial killer? While you supposed that would benefit the Refuge and it’s overpopulation issue, you still didn’t exactly want to… y'know, DIE PAINFULLY. Key word- painfully. If you were going to boldly face the sweet embrace of death, you’d rather it end in the blink of an eye like the old prophets had predicted.

Morbidly enough, they were all dead now.

The alternative, however (which you didn’t consider a viable option because let’s face it, you weren't  _that_  heartless), was just leaving him out on the streets to sleep on the sidewalk. He didn’t have anything worth mugging by the looks of it, but you couldn’t make such a merciless choice without it beating down on your conscience.

...Were you seriously going to do this?

An irritated sigh fluttered forth from your lips as you hoist the lamplighter up and off the booth, throwing his arm above your shoulder as you began the expedition out the diner, his feet dragging across the matted rug. At least you couldn’t be penalized too severely, given the circumstances. A few honeyed words to the manager would probably cushion the damage to your position’s legitimacy, but that was more of the blind arrogance reassuring you. You weren't sure how far that'll even go.

_...It’d just be this once. And never again._

You were largely certain that those were someone’s famous last words.

Resigning yourself to that reckless excuse of a battle plan, Jay tip-taps nearby and opens the cab door open for the two of you as you more or less, uncouthly stuff the lamplighter into a seat and strap him in.

 _“Still out cold,”_ you mutter to yourself, re-counting the roll of bills just as a precautionary measure out of the paranoia that you may have miscounted. You’d made enough tips from the day to cover a one-way trip back to the complex, but nowhere else was unfortunately within proper reach. Well, nowhere beneficial to your plight.

You really weren’t sure if you should go through with this _at all._ You didn’t know a damn thing about this man whatsoever- this wasn’t just some fucking fantasy RPG where you brought strangers into the home and suddenly force them to embark on some juvenile quest. He could actually hurt you; or even _worse_ because of your naivete.

You supposed you could just… hide that lamp pole in the closet or somewhere out of reach so he couldn’t just bash you or take an eye out with it. Given his blatant lack of energy, you suspected it wouldn’t really take monstrous effort to overpower him  if he tried attacking you or… something. Were lamplighter attacks even a thing?

 _“Alright,”_ the cab driver started smugly, an indiscernible accent interwoven within his speech. _“Where are you two sweethearts headed?”_

It just now occured to you how dubious the spectacle must appear to a third party, a nervous sweat crawling it’s way down your skin. Oh, crap. 

“Sector 8, Carnelian Avenue,” you responded promptly, albeit with a tremulous tone, praying to whatever sick God was out there watching that this driver wasn’t particularly conversational. You weren’t in the mood to answer a barrage of questions you didn’t have half of the answers to, and exiting a stressful work shift didn’t exactly leave you in the best of spirits.  

You sunk a little in your seat, secluding yourself into a self-contained universe away from the riotous affairs of the refuge that pounded in the never-ending spectrums of red, smeared boisterously in all of it’s shades across the scarlet city. The city quietly flew on behind you past the tinted window,  it’s restless concerto drowned out by the radio noise that had emanated from the front seat. The flashing neon signs and luminous posters all bleared together in an unsavory blend of crimson so maddening that you couldn’t stare at it for more than a few seconds, so you kept your eyes onto the back of the passengers seat without a word.

Your eyelids gradually ease themselves closed, the gentle rocking of the automobile lulling you further and further into the sweet whisper of sleep. It'd have been a bad idea to conk out here, and it was comforting to know that you had the next day off from work to oversleep, certainly- but that might not have been a fantastic course of action _with a fucking stranger in your house._

Knowing the morning sun would no longer grace you was a herculean blow to your optimism; not even the passing years could subside the bitterness that welled up in the back of your throat, fingers clawing desperately and already tapering into the darkness where nothing but the blithe abyss answered the people's wailing cries.

...Perhaps you were just tired, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Funnily enough, I actually had to separate this segment into two different chapters because it just got to be too long. ;n;
> 
> I have to do quite a bit or research before I finish the next one, but I shouldn't take too long!! I'm sorry poor Plight hasn't gotten a whole lot of dialogue in- he's going to be quite talkative when he's... well, awake, in later chapters! Please bear with me until then! ;w;
> 
> I'd be more concerned about how cliched this is turning out were it not for the fact that the person I'm writing this from genuinely seems to enjoy it, so I do apologize!!


	4. Sleepy Skyline

The cab had careened smoothly down the residential area where the complex lied, coming to a gentle halt along the curb with just enough momentum to snap you awake from your peaceful half-slumber. Lugging yourself out the door had felt like a monstrous feat in itself to accomplish, and it was quite the motivation-killer knowing that you had an entire person that required assistance just to get out.

Suffice to say, it was far too late to lament your choices now. Having relinquished yourself to this fate, the only remaining option that would keep your pride intact was to see things through to the end.

The ride had lasted a rough 25 minutes, thanks to a bit of an irksome traffic jam that hadn’t been anticipated by the driver. The collapsed phone tower, predictably, had been causing widespread havoc throughout the Refuge as none of the denizens could get a proper hold of anyone. The arrant bedlam that would ensue from the panic sent shivers down your spine- you could have requested the police to pick up the lamplighter to spare you the hassle if that mishap had never befallen the city.

Sure, there weren’t any riots out on the streets and it wasn’t the total anarchic collapse of society, but it just sucked a lot. You deduced things were good enough without molotovs being thrown from balconies.

Either way, you paid the full fare and gave the man the remaining 8 from your tips as thanks for hauling a torpid server and a suspect man down a few blocks of the city, grateful of your sharp memory in instructing him to drive over to the alternate elevator entrance before the last sliver of consciousness slipped through your grasp. You didn’t want to imagine the brutal walk halfway down the block to the alternate elevator entrance had you forgotten, the trip was something you could handle alone- but certainly not with a grown man weighing down your back.

You lumbered on over to the elevator with some difficulty, mashing the button impatiently as your foot tapped an erratic rhythm against the ground. The unconscious lamplighter snored lightly in your ear, your free hand keeping him as steady as humanly possible as he risked toppling over without physical support sustaining him.

That damn elevator needed to come faster- you couldn't risk people seeing you in public this. Not that you had a reputation to uphold, or anything.

It was inconceivably suspicious to just haul around another human being in such an unsubtle fashion- and you knew without a doubt that there a few robots who lived closeby that would report you without hesitation for the bizarre activity. Damn snitches.

While that was probably the sole purpose of the home security bots in the first place, they still managed to file constant complaints about the noise from your apartment. It wasn’t as if blasting hip-hop was a crime- despite some of the more juvenile lyrics that ensued from your favorites. Still, you had to comply or else an eviction notice was a _very_ probable threat. Yikes.

The door pinged upon arrival of the ground level, the same old elevator chime pouring into earshot and submerging your rapid-firing thoughts with its grating melody. They really needed to change this jingle. It was charming the first few weeks, and even that soon dissolved into an unendurable sequence of pitches. Maybe you could start a petition or something.

Nobody had been inside- perfect. The “47” button lit vibrantly as you bapped it forcefully, bottom lip raw from the subconscious amount of nervous chewing. So far, so good. The stress of the situation had made the entire process seem more gruesome to bear than it had really been- which was an exceedingly common result of overreacting.

It was fine. It’s okay. You were almost there- there was just the last set of skywalks to traverse, and you were otherwise golden.

Signs of recent construction had become more apparent around the vicinity, the demolished catwalk near-fully restored to it’s previous, brittle majesty. Perhaps with a smooth and conductive work day, your typical route to work would soon be repaired and no more hassling detours would be necessary. Hopefully the squares didn’t just rip it to shreds again- it takes less than a minute for them to deconstruct literally anything they touched, and usually the damage had to be “squared” away with before any repairs could take place.

...You winced at your own pun and hurried along to the western wing, despite the over-encumbering company.

While the estimate time was roughly 2 in the morning, the time of day had forfeited its purpose when their world had been devoid of the sun’s coveted radiance. Someone was still likely to be around doing something-or-other, and it was going to be wretchedly difficult  to pass it off as “yeah, we’re kinda just chillin’-” when almost everyone on your floor knew how much of a loner you were. They’d figure just about the only way you’d get anyone to go home with you was if they were unconscious, anyways- that was rather soul-crushingly depressing.

Less internal monologue, more sneaking. You trot as quietly as circumstances would permit you down the hall, over to the third door on the right where  you could hear someone’s radio blasting from a few rooms down. Fiddling too long with the keys could spell catastrophe, but you manage to insert it on the first try despite the strain of another person boring down against you.

_How the hell was this bastard still asleep?_

The door of the apartment clicked open,  aged hinges creaking in agony from the frenzied urgency of your kick. You checked again if the worker was conscious, and nudged the door shut once you confirmed the answer was a negative. There was a jolting hesitation as you reached for the lock, awash with the unshakable sensation of anxiety.

This felt… sleazy, almost. Regardless of the good intentions behind this whole scheme, you were tremendously skeptical of the outcome.

...What if he chose to press charges for this?

_Shit._

You needed to dump him somewhere. The floor would be sufficient in theory, yes, but that was… a little too crass of a solution, even with the potential paranoia of the lamplighter’s reaction to this whole ordeal. _You wouldn’t win any favors with the court by treating him that way, either._ That and, you risked tripping over him with the limited space occupied both by you and the numerous scattered objects that you originally planned to have cleaned up months ago. There were even a few boxes lying around that you never got around to unpacking.

The couch would have been ideal- were it not for the fact that it was located smack in the middle of the miserably-small excuse of a living room, and more importantly; closest to the door. If he arose before you, he might plunder the room for what shabby amounts of valuables you owned and just bail. Getting your shit stolen wasn’t exactly on your to-do list.

The final option, appallingly, was _your_ bedroom.

You shuddered at the mere concept, intensely repelled by the idea and how it had been, funnily enough, the _next optimal solution_. Your apartment was a one-bedroom one bathroom- no more than a single person was expected to dwell in upper floors as most families occupied the lower residential areas closest to the surface for the sake of convenience. The bedroom door creaked to hell and back, and you weren’t deep enough of a sleeper to let something like that slip by you if he did try to sneak past. If you kept a weapon within arms reach and hunkered down on the couch, things just might go smoothly.

As smoothly as broken glass, that is.

You tried to speculate this all from a self-preserving standpoint. While getting ransacked wasn’t something you’d really appreciate, you’d rather that be the alternative to being murdered.

It was good enough, you supposed.

You trudged over to the only bedroom in the apartment, half-tempted to use the lamplighter’s weight to push the door open. You weren’t sure if utilizing an unconscious person as an assisting tool was a great idea, so you just bumped it open with your hips.

For a moment, you expected for him to at least stir from the sound of the door groaning at the impact. Were it not for the occasional snores he emitted, you’d think he was actually dead.

 _“Good night, sweet prince,”_ you narrated melodramatically to nobody in particular as you lay the poor soul to rest, snatching the patchwork cap that flopped off of his head and depositing it onto the bedside table. You really, _really_ wanted to at least remove his shoes so they wouldn’t scuff up the sheets if he was a thrasher, but God only knows the evil you’d unleash if that was carried through. You could bear to live with handling the aftermath of an extra laundry load, but not so much someone else’s reek.

But oooooh, boy. Even with the lamplighter alone, you were going to have the wash those sheets several times over to purge the smell for good. Sure the odor wasn’t back alley-tier unspeakable, but the margin just below that was only slight. Nothing that would (probably) choke up the room, but only time would tell the results of that gamble. You could bust out the incense and the various, unused Christmas-themed candles when company was absent from your small residency.

Just as a safety precaution, you gingerly unlatched the pole from his belt and withdrew it onto the floor, the filled phosphor jars following suit as you positioned them onto a nearby dresser beside a few knick-knacks and family photos. You really couldn’t afford to have the carpets bleached if the phosphor had spilled, and the lamplighter’s deftness was questionable at best as exhibited by the uniform mishap earlier this evening. That pole was going with you and beneath the couch- the damn thing could probably impale you if enough strength was behind it. No shish-kabobing for you.

For now, the task had been dealt with. Perhaps not in the most superlative fashion, but it would have to do.

Instincts drove you over to the kitchen immediately after the door clicked shut behind you, rummaging through the drawers for the largest kitchen knife in your arsenal. While the intent to kill was absent, there was no other way you could begin to feel safe with the choices you’ve made unless there was a ticket out of it.

Just in case he really _was_  a serial killer than wanted your blood, you'd at least have a method of self-defense.

Not that you knew how to handle a weapon. You could barely wield a spoon- the sound of it clinking against any surface had you quake from the sudden noise.

Your fingers slid quietly against the plastic grip, the blade too large and bulky to be of any sensible use in the household now as you hadn’t cooked in weeks. You practically lived off of leftovers and takeout now, since the pizza guy would usually get lost or trapped up on the catwalks by the squares. You were grateful at  least THAT wasn’t your job.

Meandering on over to the half-filled laundry basket over besides the couch, you slipped the knife beneath a pillow and shimmied yourself out of your stifling work clothes. Your eyes were glued warily onto the bedroom door in the case you needed to chuck something in rage or hide your tasty bits had the lamplighter become suddenly resurrected. You haven't had the time all week to do the laundry, having been scheduled 4 days back-to-back with little energy left to get anything else accomplished.

You ultimately settled and threw on just about the only clean article of clothing left, an _“I herded rams and all I got was this lousy shirt!”_ t-shirt that was about two sizes too big. How the hell did you even get this, anyways? You faintly recall that it was from some sort of Secret Ram Club in highschool, run by some poor nerd whom you were inclined to believe left the Refuge shortly after graduation. Hmm.

_What put you most on edge, however, was the lack of clean pants._

As if clutching the limp hopes that you had somehow made a mistake or simply lost the ability to discern what classified as “pants”, you scoured the basket to the very bottom before the results came out the same. No jeans, no shorts- nothing. If you started the machine up now and arose early enough before your guest had, you’d at least have something presentable adorning you as opposed to being half-naked. But that took time and effort- both of which you were miserably short of.

Lady Luck was doing  little more than simply conspiring against you- she’d outright drop kicked you down through all nine circles of Hell.

Holy shit.

In essence, you had been left pantsless in a cruel, unforgiving world, stranded atop the couch in nothing but a baggy shirt and undergarments. You were enlightened upon the fact that you could pull it down a smidgen with enough force, but even that seemed a little pointless if you were going to dress like a fucking slob. A ram-herding tool of a slob, to boot. The shame and discomfiture alone would kill you outright if the lamplighter never does.

Fortuitously, some blankets had been bunched up next to the couch that you readily snapped up, cocooning yourself snugly in it’s warmth as you flicked the television set on with the remote control by your feet. There was nothing good to binge-watch on a Thursday night to keep you awake and on high-alert, but you could probably make do with the broadcasts provided.

Drawing the blankets up close, you sank into the plushness of the sofa whilst flipping through various channels in hopes of avoiding any further morbidity that the news would undoubtedly present. Nothing good was ever on this late- even the reruns were drab.

In the end, you resolved yourself to watching a late-night baking broadcast covering the topic of preparing red-velvet cupcakes, substituting the frosting for a wide variety of alternative flavors that would conclusively (in your opinion,) make the cupcakes taste less good.

Thank God you were off work tomorrow. You didn’t have any motivation left to do anything but sleep all day, and briefly considered that perhaps the lamplighter’s lethargy had been contagious. Housework had been a chore imposing on the list for so long that it became more of an added feature than an actual milestone for cleanliness.

At some point during the program, your mind had gone on autopilot and tuned out the sprightly hoots of the show hosts, the sounds leaking from the television set now reduced to a subdued droning as consciousness edged itself away from you.

You ducked under the covers and snaked a hand beneath your pillow, digits gliding against the blade. No, it was fine. You were certain he had more integrity than that to pull anything.

You had to tell yourself this, or you just couldn’t settle.

  
Regardless of the doubt that plagued you, the sheets were too enveloping and the cushiness of the sofa too enticing; and consciousness soon eluded you as dreamland beckoned from the edges of the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haaaah. Remember when I said the next chapter wouldn't take too long?
> 
> I'm so bad at consistency. :^)


	5. (Not-so) Rude Awakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was up 'til 8 am writing this, fuk u
> 
> 3/9 Edit: Fixed some minor errors that slipped by me bc I'm a terrible writer lmao

The morning greeted you with a technicolor screen and a shrill, piercing bleep, eyes unfocused upon the TV and the sound it had ceaselessly exuded. You began groping blindly around the coffee table for the remote, nearly toppling over a glass of water in the process as you fumbled to turn that damn device off.  The echoes of the outside city and the quiet babble of the nextdoor neighbors filled the leisure silence, consciousness fading in and out faintly in blips on the outer edges of your mind.

It’s true what they say- the city never sleeps.

Recollection and awakening was a process that took you several minutes into the day to shake yourself loose from, as waking up before noon was virtually improbable given the nature of your sleep schedule. You rose your head slowly from up off the pillow, accompanied by a dull thunk originating less than a foot away from the couch. Peering off the edge of the sofa, you were both disturbed and baffled by the sight of a kitchen knife lying upon the carpet, the dull blade glistening pink from the light of the phosphor lamps.

Huh, that’s a little eerie. Why would you ever ne-

_Oh, fuck._

_The lamplighter._

Realization jump-started you back to life. You unthinkingly kick the sheets high into the air as they fluttered from the center of the room to the other end, draping over the laundry basket and an opened box crammed full of books. You flew over to the door and began inspecting the lock, testing the door before confirming that it was seemingly untouched. You began poking and prowling around the living room for anything that seemed even remotely amiss, though nothing had particularly struck you as odd or unusual.

How long had you been out?

Rounding the couch, you lightly tapped the glass phone screen as the numbers glowed softly on the display. You’d been conked out for almost a full 12 hours- that was the first in a while that you’d overslept to such a degree.

There was snoring from the other end of the apartment, a near-comical rumbling so boisterous that it had reached your ears even from your sofa-island. That certainly answered one- well, two of your questions. Three, technically, if you were concerned about whether or not the lamplighter had mysteriously passed away in his sleep. You couldn’t even hide a body in a city this cramped, even if  the scenic view from the city skyline had magnified it’s size.

Knocking on the door was one idea, if not a preposterous one. He’d only wake up baffled to be in the residency of an outsider, but you reasoned he’d have been befuddled either way since the outcome of the encounter would essentially turn out the same, whether it be intrusion (on your own property?) or just shaking him like a ragdoll. Not many people reacted well to waking up in a stranger’s home unless it was more or less consensual. Not many people reacted well to being woken in _general_ , if memory served you.

...Delaying the inevitable doesn’t make it any less so, however.

He’d have to wake up eventually- but you just weren’t content to wait for him any longer. Your apprehension had reached critical mass in such a short time span that it nearly spun you forward with reckless duress, the door exasperated with your arrival as it groaned low into the unilluminated bedroom. Your fingers twitch impatiently as you roll your fingers against the smoothness of the handle, stopping just against the knife’s guard as you inched into the room upon witnessing that the lamplighter hadn’t so much as budged from his spot.

The blade had felt stone-cold to the touch, hands shaking uncontrollably from the anticipation as your fingers slithered unhurriedly across the wall for the outlet you _swore should be around here somewhere, where the hell was it-_ promptly flipping the light switch as a row of star-shaped fairy lights on the wall buzzed and flickered to life. The room had been small enough that even such a dainty source of light could easily encompass every curve and corner of the room perfectly, and was considerably softer on the eyes than the high-concentrated phosphor lights that were standard in every household within the Refuge.

It was a necessity to survival here- and you were off-handedly reminded that he unconscious man sprawled atop your bed had been tasked with the irksome role of delivering it in bulk to nearly every facility the Refuge had at its disposal. Wasn’t there only enough of the stuff to go around, anyways? What was even going to happen when the phosphor’s light completely diminishes?

...Uh oh.

Your gaze bounced back over to the lamplighter and the dreadful volume of his snoring, the sound displeasing enough that the chorus of machinery from the construction crew down the hall had paled in comparison. It was probably best for your sanity if you got him out as soon as physically possible, but you had no inclination to think that the tides would ever turn in your favor if you tried.

You crept on over to what should rightfully have been your bed, peering vigilantly down at his unceremonious frame as you held the knife with both hands, thumb circling anxiously against the hilt. You were wracked wave after wave with uncertainty before realizing you’d need a free hand to shake him awake with- it might be beneficial not to brandish anything straight away.

There was mild solace in knowing he appeared to be enjoying his slumber, with the way his limbs were contentedly splayed and bent at awkward and suspiciously broken angles. His shirt had somehow managed to unbutton itself halfway through the tossing and turning, his coat tangling itself with some of the bedsheets. Pillows were strewn carelessly about the carpet and part of the blankets had been kicked haphazardly off the edge of the bed, dangling from the end of the mattress. Your speculation regarding his sleeping mannerisms proved accurate, surely, not that it did much to derail from the fact that you would have to clean up this mess later on.

Floating over to the lamplighter, your hand progressively extends itself over to him before quickly retracting in rapid succession, over and over, as if disobediently refraining from stirring the man in from sleep. It shouldn’t have been that hard- so why was this taking so much effort?

“Um,” you began, the uneasiness creeping down your spine, _“Rise and shine…! Can you, maybe… get up?”_ You weren’t sure that such a monotonous wake-up call would legitimately succeed in deterring him, but the act had won you what could only be interpreted as a groan of discontent.

Emboldened by the streaks of progress, you gradually leaned closer as your knee begins to sink into the memory-foam mattress, the ultimate mark of your hubris- and the direct result of overspending. You once held shallow desires of getting better sleep from one of those widely-advertised foam mattresses as opposed to the stiff hand-me-down queensize you’d been using for your entire childhood beforehand- and by God you could feel the difference.

Your hand ghosted silently across his shoulder as the original plan to rouse him stagnated all too quickly. About an entire minute had passed between the two of you, as the lamplighter’s now- mellowed snores had fanned away the inexplicable gap you had somehow torn into the atmosphere.

There was the left-field preoccupation with scrutinizing his details in the petty, obscure fear that movement would only further agitate him when that was supposedly the end goal- and found yourself both enchanted and repelled with your newfound fascination, the rise and fall of his chest with each breath he took, the disorderly uniform and the scruffy, violet hair-

Oh God. This was bad, This was so, SO bad.

It was like something out of a goddamn novel- not even the Author himself could have made this situation viable.

You weren’t some kind of predator- you didn’t even ask for any of this in the first place.

It was circumstance that bound you, yes, against your will as the limited selections had been-

_“Mmm.”_

The brusqueness of his groggy tenor had you completely petrified.

His limbs stretched themselves outwards and further crinkled the unkempt bed in sluggish, lackadaisical movements before he seemed to withdraw, brushing past your leg with his knee in the process. You involuntarily jerked from the contact with such vehement force that it shook the entire bed, fairy lights clinking against the wall in petite chimes as the neon glow undulated with it’s movements.

_“...Huh-”_

...You were in the lion’s den, now.

His eyes strained into the shimmering overhead lights, his body grown unnaturally rigid despite the languid contentedness he had exhibited only seconds ago. His mouth gradually opened, forming into a twisted frown that had only amplified to you the prevalence of his waking confusion.

After what had felt like an eternity, the lamplighter’s eyes widened like saucers as he shot upwards into a sitting position, staggering you with the force of his kick as you toppled off of the bed with minimal grace. For once, luck had bequeathed to you the good fortune of landing a foot away from the weapon that could have effectively ended your life had the angle been more askew.

“W-where the hell is this?” he demanded incredulously, leering dubiously over at you from his (your) perch. His eyes had you pinned with a frightening breed of sharpness as he refused to relinquish his gaze, stopping his scan mid-way as his eyes landed around your midsection and from the lack of clothing thereon, completely abandoned ship.

You rocketed up from your spot on the floor and raised your hands in the air, only realizing this folly too late as you’ve effectively and on accidental whim alone, flaunted the large kitchen knife in the open. His eyes immediately tore away from you and onto the weapon, scrabbling madly to his feet as he backed himself up against the wall in sheer panic.

 _“Holy shit,”_ he swore, “Were you about to fucking _murder me_?”

Your eyes widened as you desperately shook your head to purge the thought, but it was evident by the abhorrence on the lamplighter’s expression that he wasn’t buying it. At all.

“You definitely were,” his voice cracked a little, “You were… you were going to straight-up murder the heck out of me!” he pointed accusingly over in your direction.

“I was not,” you griped defensively, earning you a look from the worker as though he thought you were a complete lunatic.

You quickly re-assessed the situation at hand. You were standing in place, half-naked with a kitchen knife bigger than your head wielded in your dominant hand while your guest (whom you reminded yourself,) had passed out at the diner and was unwilling _dragged_ into your apartment, and was currently on top of your bed and _backed up against the corner of the room_. Good luck explaining that to the authorities. 

Things weren’t really looking too great on your side of the field.

“T-Then what’s with the knife, huh? What, were you gonna like, _conveniently lodge it into my ribcage?_ ” he gulped, his arms ensnared within the string of fairy lights in the process of struggling. You winced as he slipped onto his rump atop the mattress, a hollow thud echoing through as he bumped the back of his head clumsily against the wall. The lamplighter hissed in discomfort.

_This guy was a bigger threat to his own life than literally anything else._

You wordlessly slid the blade onto the dresser and proceeded to raise your hands into the air a second time, hoping to convey that you weren't armed anymore and held no deliberate intent to bring him harm. He scowled at you in protest, and proceeded to hold his ground.

“I’m sorry,” you began with a clear of the throat, “It was for self-defense, I swear. I didn’t know what to expect-” the rest of the sentence died on your lips, finding it harrowing to rationalize everything you’d brought upon yourself.

He studied your gesture for a moment with some disdain.

“...Where is this?” he prodded.

“It’s my apartment bedroom. Do you…” you paused to try and formulate the words with a pinch more eloquence than the previous sentence, “What’s the last thing you can remember before you woke up just now?”

The lamplighter huffed, arms crossed. “The toast,” he responded with dim-witted resolution.

You were somehow unsurprised _that_ was the last thing he’d remember.

“Right,” you continued, “I was going to bring you the order of toast, but I had to take my mandatory break and so my co-worker should have brought it out to you. I asked her to.”

He nodded, comprehending, but kept his eyes glued unnervingly onto you. “She did. She, uh…” he did a short cough, suddenly averting his gaze. You quirked an eyebrow.

“...She brought me about, like, 6 plates in a row? I should have maybe… y’know, told her to stop, but I don’t think she knew that she wasn’t supposed to keep giving me more portions. But I was… well, starving. Hadn’t eaten all damn day. I stuffed myself into a coma with 12 slices of toast and almost a whole pot of coffee, and I just… I don’t know what happened after. I felt tired, but I had 4 more delivery spots across the city, so I couldn’t just stop.” He looked as though a child who’d just been caught with his hand jammed halfway into a cookie jar.

You fidgeted uncomfortably, not wanting to instill any alarm into him by notifying the lamplighter that he’d been out for nearly 12 hours.

“...Well, when was the last time you slept, before today?” You wandered over to draw the curtains located just beside the bed a smidgen, unveiling the veranda that had overlooked the avenue. The passersby appeared so miniscule as they scuttled on the sidewalk below, going about the daily races.

At this, the lamplighter appeared genuinely stumped. “Uh… well,” he frowned. “What day is it?”

“Friday the 10th,” you answered, allowing for the crimson glow of the city to trickle in through the curtain crack.

There was some silence, then,  _“3 days ago. I think."_

“...You’re not serious?” you stuttered, flabbergasted by this. “How did you mana-” the question had answered itself before you were even finished with it.

The pity meter skyrocketed to levels previously unbeknownst to man.

The lamplighter gave you a noncommittal shrug, yawning a little too loudly than what was preferable. You were amused at how comfy he’d suddenly gotten.

“That’s been the norm this past month. There’s shortages left and right, and a lot of the delivery robots are gettin’ screwed with by the square things. I’m basically doing their job too, without the overtime pay.” he grumbled, scratching the back of his head sheepishly.

“You can’t seriously be the ONLY lamplighter employed in the entire Refuge, though,” you sputtered, and he only shook his head.

“I mean no, but like… most of ‘em just flat out quit already. Nobody wants to do this job. I mean, I don’t want to do it either- but I need the cash.” his lips curved into a grimace. _“Hell, I live in the back alley, for cryin’ out loud…”_

You gulped. There didn’t seem to be an end in sight to the workload stacked against him, and a part of you felt immensely inclined to at least try and step in- but was that really your place to act? You had your own problems and job to deal with, why stuff more work onto your plate?

The truth was, you didn’t know why. Some rusty instinct just decided to kick in at some point and dictated you should do such. And so you obeyed.

“...Come on,” a long sigh fled you, “Let’s chat in the living room. I’ll whip something up for you real quick.”

At this, he was dumbstruck. For a second time, he had been doubting the authenticity of your offer.

“I left the knife in here, if that sweetens the deal,” you added, advancing towards the doorway. “I’m really sorry if I freaked you out, honest. I’m not gonna try anything. I swear on my life, “ You earnestly pledged, spotting him turning away as you did so, presumably so he didn’t wind up staring at your ass with your back turned to him.

_How kind._

* * *

 

You drifted over towards the kitchen and began sifting through the barren pantry, salvaging a crusty old box of pancake mix wedged in the corner beneath a stack of unopened cupcake tins. It was a relief, truthfully, to hear the lamplighter’s footsteps approach the dining table. Perhaps it was a sign he was actually beginning to trust you.

God only knows how old the box was, but it was the only filling thing you could actually serve anyone. You hadn’t done the groceries in a while now- that was another task on the list.

“What’s your name, by the way?” you inquired while mixing the batter, brushing some of the stray powder on your cheek with the back of your hand.

“...Most folks just, uh... call me Plight,” he chuckled sleepily, “It’s a nickname of mine. Some of the kids at the library started calling me that, since it was one of my main delivery spots. I guess it got around, ‘cuz almost everyone calls me that, now.”

You nodded, following along. “Plight,” you repeated to yourself in a gentle hum. You spot his head perk up at this, as though he heard you beckoning. “My name is-”

“I know-” he intercepted you, expression dropping as he’d realized what he’d just done. “I mean, like… s-sorry. I mean, I know your name. I’ve read your nametag before,” Plight guiltily amended.

The batter began to sizzle and pop as you gave a short _‘mhm’_ before turning the pancake over, finding yourself pleasantly surprised that he had remembered your name. Most of the regulars didn't even bother.

Plight sniffed once, twice- and tapped his knuckle against the tabletop. “Woah. Those uh… pancakes?” You nodded in the affirmative.

“Just a fair warning, though. The mix is kind of… old. It’s not past it’s expiration date or anything,” you announced, “I’m using actual milk instead of plain water to hopefully make it taste better. It’s nothing like the stuff back at the restaurant, but... you know.”

“That’s fine,” the man in lilac in assured, “I was just surprised you had mix in the first place. I heard they started cutting back real hard on shipments after the wheat shortages, so they aren’t as available as they used to be.”

That was precisely the same reason your diner had stopped serving pancakes on the menu. The prices inflated ridiculously after said shortage, and management didn’t have the finances necessary to keep up the influx of orders. Not for what they were charging it for, at least.

The meal, such as it was, had been done in a matter of minutes. You narrowly scraped enough batter from the bowl to make a stack of three, but you prayed that would suffice. There was a quarter of a stick of margarine butter remaining and the syrup was almost completely depleted, not enough to satiate _you,_ but Plight likely didn’t have as big of a sweet tooth.

“Geez,” Plight stiffened before tearing into his breakfast, “You’re making me feel bad-” Clearly.

“First I pass out during your shift, then you take me to your place and let me stay on your fuckin’ bed, instead of leaving me out on the street like most people do,” he wiped himself with a sleeve, pancake residue smearing his already-tattered clothing, “...And THEN you feed me. I’m sensing an....” he gnawed on his fork, looking in that moment as if he were trying to recall something with extreme hardship.

“An ulterior motive?” you suggested helpfully, hoping you didn't sound too optimistic or else he’d think that was actually the case.

“Yeah, that,” he pointed the tableware over at you. “Dictionary term,” he declared almost triumphantly.

_Uh, what._

“No, that’s... reaaaaally not what I’m trying to do. Do I really look like that much of a sleazeball?” The silence that followed was not reassuring you in the least bit, as you witnessed that Plight was conflicted with between wanting to meet your gaze and keeping his eyes elsewhere; anywhere.

The realization that you were still pantsless had avalanched down without mercy.

“Uh, I’m sorry about the indecency, I-”

“I wasn’t looking,” he interjected very suddenly, unconvincingly- his cheeks gradually turning a rosy shade of pink so intense it had put the Refuge phosphor to shame. Plight resumed shoveling pancake pieces into his mouth, as some of it stuck to his unshaven chin.

You felt the heat rush in full-force to your face, mind swimming at such a dandy revelation.

_Ooooooooh-kaaaaaaaaaaay._

“Great,” you choked hoarsely, hand snaking over in front of your mouth; an involuntary reaction to embarrassment. Neither of you had the gall to look at each other.

The silence that ensued was so thick, you could have sliced clean through it with that knife you left back in the bedroom.

“So,” you began, quickly correcting the retail voice that had kicked in without consent, “...Do you work today?”

“ _Ngh,”_ He gurgled in response, drumming up a number of concerns from you. “Oh God, I’m going to be in SO much trouble,” Plight lamented, utensils clattering noisily onto the ceramic plate. “I didn’t finish those last deliveries, I didn’t even confirm my time punch, and I don’t know how many minutes of work I’ve been missing-”

“Uh... it sort of seems like they're overworking you,” you asserted icily, “You mentioned earlier you’re not getting paid overtime for it, right? Not sure what kind of corporation you work for, but that isn’t okay. You need to bring it up with management-”

“That’s not gonna work,” Plight stammered back, head lowered. “It was stated in my work contract that they could push my hours. Said it was my fault for not reading it all the way through, and damn if they’re not right. I was desperate for money, so I jumped at the chance."

You grit your teeth at this, fingers curling indignantly at the hem of the oversized shirt.

After a shared moment of mutual frustration, an idea hit you.

“...Come on, let’s go,” you hopped out of the chair with rejuvenated steps and dug out the least-rattiest pair of garments in the laundry basket, entirely forgetting for a second that someone else had been present in the room as you changed. _‘I wasn’t looking’_ your ass. You could feel his eyes on you.

“...Wait, what?” 

“I need you to show me where the administration office is,” you procured the hooked pole from beneath the sofa and tossed it over to him, fingers rapidly tapping away a number that you hadn’t been in contact with since high school graduation, waltzing out the apartment door as Plight trudged behind you, utterly puzzled. 

 **  
**_“Hey, hey! It’s me, long time no chat,"_ you gabbed into the device.

_"So, Gabby at work told me you graduated from law school...”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. This chapter was over 4000 words dfghjkl.
> 
> ....Well, at least he's awake now!! Sorry if you're annoyed by all the interactions, Plight is just so much fun to write for ;n; 
> 
> Sorry if I'm kind of vague abt the reader, I intentionally did so that the reader could fit themselves in more easily! Hence "garments", which implies you as the reader wear basically whatever it is you want, whether is just sweatpants or a sundress! I hope I've been keeping up the "no defined gender" thing well, please do not hesitate to correct or notify me if I've made a mistake somewhere! I would very much like to stay true to this detail!


	6. Coffee Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: People who like to drink their coffee black might be put off by this chapter. c: (Y'all are monsters I don't know how the heck you do it)
> 
> Edit: 3/24/17 Fixed a minor continuity error that nobody might have noticed in the first place

Several weeks flew by in relative harmony following the lawsuit that you and an old buddy of yours had filed against the corporation responsible for writing the lamplighter’s paychecks. Rather than the selling point be the inflexibility of the hours as you had initially hypothesized, it was actually due to an indirect violation of some sort of health code. While it was lovely and all that you won the lawsuit, it was still highly distressing that it was not made possible until long after the signs had been exhibited.

You’d guess now that it happened about three weeks ago, an hour after you’d embarked the morning he had awoken in your apartment, Plight dragging his feet as he pleaded with you not to cause a row with his employer.

You knew better than anyone else the excruciating hell that was the “Can I speak to the Manager” scenario, and never in your wildest dreams had you envisioned yourself playing that part. You intended to give them a piece of your mind, or in the strong and near-imminent probability that your confidence deteriorated, at least bargain with them.

The rigid bastard didn’t even so much as budge at your concerns, deflecting every argument and suggestion that came his way, all the while choking up your lungs with cigarette smoke that he puffed all over the place like a damn steam train. You regret not taking a shot at his pinstripe suit before the two of you were (rudely) ushered out the tacky office. Plight appeared completely cowed during the entire confrontation, and you couldn’t exactly blame him. Here you thought YOUR manager was unsympathetic- the lamplighter’s boss was the very definition of underhanded tactlessness.

After a good hour of pestering and dogged insistence following the failed persuasion attempt, you managed to convince the tall man to seek medical aid in the case that whatever ailed him would not easily disperse on it’s own whims. You were probably just overanalyzing, but something about his symptoms struck you as unsettling- a more subtle ague hampering his ability to perform his duties with the usual competence.

The results came back out a little… bleaker, than the two of you had anticipated.

Plight had been diagnosed with a form of anemia, apparently.

While the cause was primarily due to iron-deficiency dictated by a poor diet and was very much treatable, the key steps to recovery were well out of his reach back then. His work scheduling forbade him from catching a break long enough to eat properly to sustain all of the energy he’d been burning through, and the laughable concept of getting a full 8 hours of sleep was shot down as the Refuge’s increasing phosphor demands gave him no quarter. It seemed utterly hopeless; even the doctor seemed outraged by the conundrum.

Ultimately, Plight was blessed (and the term was used _very_ loosely) to come down with one of the more less severe cases out of the 400+ different types of anemia that were on the dizzying long list typed out on the pamphlet you were given. You weren’t exactly sure why you were handed the responsibility of educating yourself on it, though this was inferred to be the case as the receptionist had mistaken you as his cousin, and you had to politely remind the personnel otherwise.

You were, however, astonished to learn that Plight’s decomposing health and vigor had not gone unnoticed by the community. It turned out that multiple customers and Refuge denizens alike that had seemingly watched an ample distance from the sidelines had one way or another, either filed complaints or had made active attempts to contact the administration office about his extraneous lethargy. While their efforts bore no fruit, the notion was incredibly touching, at least.

Plight wound up having quite the fan following; though you couldn’t help but selfishly feel as though your actions were the real tipping point for things.

…That and, you were the only one with specific connections that demanded the attention needed to remedy the situation. You supposed even in the end with your unluckiness, the resources made available to you could at least bring someone else good fortune.

...

Whether it be out of some sense of obligation due to your assistance in his now-reasonable hours, or because he _genuinely_ seemed to appreciate your company, you found yourself quickly growing quite close with the lamplighter. You became accustomed to receiving his mid-shift texts (it took the guys a damn week, but they finally set up a second phone tower) complaining about something as unremarkable as another ripped seam in his coat, and you’d respond in-between orders with some petty grievance that you both would find relatable. You poked fun at him at first, mocking his cheap-model flip phone that you hadn’t seen anyone use since the start of middle school.

It was funny, seeing him get puffed up about things.

For a while now, you were positive that the lamplighter only bothered to maintain communication in order to butter you up and get discounts on his meals (he was a regular now, not a day went by where he didn’t drop in at least once to impoverish the diner of its coffee supply,) but such thoughts were cast away in time due to his candid nature. He was as modest a man as he was clumsy, emanating a bumbling sort of aura that you became well-acquainted with as time ticked on.

Today, Plight had invited you over to his place for the first time to have coffee. While the invitation was sudden and unanticipated, you felt like it’d have been disrespectful to decline. It wasn’t as though you had any other plans for your day off, anyways.

It completely slipped by you that he resided in the back alleys, despite him mentioning it once in passing when he awoke in your room. It was likely you either subconsciously overlooked the detail or had simply forgotten, but you didn’t actually think he was _serious_ about it.

“I didn’t know you had a lawyer friend,” Plight’s footfalls echoed through the narrow spaces as he walked.

“My folks said the exact same thing,” you laughed softly, trailing close behind.

...You weren’t going to lie; you had your suspicions when Plight was guiding you through those twisting pink-bricked walls, his pace slow enough to where he couldn’t possibly lose sight of you in between hurdling over ripped-open trash bags and steering clear of the spontaneous squares which, sure as hell weren’t there when you last barreled through on the way to work.

In fact, it almost seemed like they were multiplying in numbers.

...You sincerely hoped that for the sake of the Refuge, your mind was just playing tricks on you.

You’ve passed several dead-ends on this trip alone to dissuade yourself from thinking that Plight was trying to lure you into something shady- though you counter-argued against yourself that it’s within the realm of possibility that Plight just missed his chances. _Repeatedly and in succession._ If you were going to be frank, the man was far from being an astute observer. He didn’t make for a very clever criminal whatsoever- but that was something advantageous for you.

“You know that those are… deadly, right?” You pointed with an index finger over to a nearby jumble of floating square particles, having occupied itself with ripping apart a robot’s arm from it’s socket.

Poor thing. You hoped it wasn’t tame.

The lamplighter had been walking far too close for comfort beside the glitchy messes; almost shoulder-to-shoulder. He wasn’t going to have an arm for much longer if his perception was really as faulty as you’d predict.

“Eh,” he shrugged, paying it no mind. “I know. I mean, I got used to them pretty fast when I got the place here. It’s not like they’ve ever popped up in my house, but I am kinda scared that I’ll wake up one day it’s going to be, like… RIGHT next to me, y’know?”

“Eugh,” you shuddered, “That’d be awful.”

“More than awful. It’d be the shittiest wake up call ever- you get up and you just die.”

You chortled at this, covering your mouth with a hand to muffle the noise. The quiet here was downright unsettling; the car honks and rallying cries of the street vendors receding far into the distance. Your voice sounded as though it were ricocheting right off the walls.

It didn’t occur to you until after, however, just how cold the back alley was. It made sense that you wouldn’t be able to perceive it before this outing, as the only experience you ever had loitering about the place was sprinting down at a breakneck pace to arrive at work on time- coming obscenely close an instance or two from narrowly twisting an ankle. A mirthless chill lanced through your body as you scampered several feet behind the lamplighter, who threw you a questioning look from over his shoulder.

“You okay there?” he doesn’t pause to wait, but respectively slowed his pace so you could catch up.

“Yeah-” You said, wishing you’d brought along a jacket. “It’s not a bad idea to carry that coat with you, all of the time,” you sighed, eyeing it enviously. Even if it was torn in places and looked kinda scraggly, it had still proficiently served it’s purpose.

“Oh, you cold?” he started, his tone of voice suggesting he was more guilty than sympathetic. “I know Kelvin hangs around one of the dead ends. A lotta people just hang around him if they want to stay warm, but there’s usually more cats than people around the guy. That’s where all the homeless dudes hang around.”

“L-Lovely,” you mustered a dithering chuckle, about to ask whom he had been referring to with such familiarity before he stopped just in front of a small, shoddy garage door, empty beer bottles and name-brand candy wrappers littering the premise. One of them fluttered up off the ground and whapped lightly against your leg as a gentle breeze picked up, shaking it off as Plight had unlocked and raised the door during your trash skirmish.

“Aaaaand here we are,” he grinned, motioning into what seemed to be a staircase leading downwards into a steep, impermeable darkness.

_Oh, no way in hell this wasn’t just a place to hide victims._

You peered into the pitch black, convinced you’d stumble and break something of yours without the proper lighting.

“You go first,” you hummed complacently, “-since you’re the one with the light. I can’t see down there too well.”

“Oh, right-” he said, the thought eluding him.

“Watch your step,” Plight instructed from in front of you, unhooking a glass phosphor jar strapped to a belt, holding it by a wire mesh handle as he descended the steps.

There was no need to tell you twice. You followed suit, stopping only once to glance at the open space behind you and the cold, unwelcoming chill that billowed inwards from the entrance.

“Should I close that?” you queried.

  
“Nah, I’ll get it later.” he responded, the rose-glow of the light guiding him onward.

...Just how long was “later” supposed to mean, exactly?

“Sorry it’s so dark. It’s, uh… usually not like this. I haven’t changed the liquid from the lights downstairs yet, so they’re pretty dim. Think they’re out already, actually.”

You hummed encouragingly in response, making your way down.

The single light he held illuminated a modest chunk of the room, making visible an office desk up against the northern wall and a stack of books just on the leftmost section, it’s contents unidentifiable from the current angle. A few empty glass jars were sprinkled carelessly on the floor close by; you could count three of them from where you stood. There sat an exotic, wilted potted plant resting atop the desk adjacent to an antique picture frame, a thick layer of dust obscuring the photograph.

He placed the first container gingerly onto the floor, grabbing the remaining jar on his waist and walking off to the opposite end of the room where, the rest of the location was now visible in full.

The lamplighter’s residence had been so cramped that it had only required two jars to completely illuminate the room, and it was just now that it began to dawn on you how stuffy it was down here. It was almost a little hard to breathe- it was already starting to give you a mild headache.

...This was less of a house than it was a basement, and you knew damn well what _that_ was like. You’ve lived in one for a while before you had moved into the complex, and the warning signs were blaring from almost every angle.

Plight had stood up onto what looked to be a bed, springs creaking as he leaned forward to pour the liquid phosphor into an overhead light. The sheets were ratty and appeared scratchy in texture from what you could see, parts of the blanket had been patched up and sewn over in numerous spots strikingly similar to his coat and cap- that couldn’t have been an aesthetic choice, right? It was a single bed; so small it looked as though he could barely fit in it himself. It didn’t look very comfortable at all- the memory-foam back in the bedroom must have been heavenly in comparison.

“Sorry ‘bout this. Won’t take too long,” he grunted, stepping off the mattress and hopping over to the other end of the room, dragging along what you surmised was the only chair in the room- you didn’t see any more present. It didn’t even have a back frame; it was basically just a worn-down ottoman.

You idly studied the cigarette burns and various dirty coffee mugs on the table, flipping through a nearby book with a familiar black clover printed on the cover.

One of the Author’s works. Everyone was a fan of his books one way or another- but you never could wrap your head around the inhuman pace in which he somehow managed to publish them. It seemed physically impossible; one of the library regulars did the calculations the last time you paid a visit. Maybe the Author was a wizard, or something. Or a time traveler.

Or a God.

“There we go,” he interrupted you before you could even begin to invest in the subject material, though the room was now thoroughly lit to where you could scrutinize everything without restraint.

...Oh, geez.

The room was uncannily analogous to a hazardous waste zone, with _actual_ shards of glass, smashed bottles, and ceramic shards scattered about the concrete floor. Peculiar stains that closely resembled phosphor spills were smeared here and there, one of which lay dangerously close by your feet. Some were more recent than others, the vivacity of the colors fresh enough to convince you that slipping was a feasible threat if you didn’t mind your step. Nothing about the place came off to you as safe or healthy to inhabit- but Plight exhibited no qualms whatsoever.

The interior was in all honestly, a ramshackle as you’d have expected from a location as seedy as the alleys. The walls were dilapidated and discolored from what looked to be phosphor damage, chunks of concrete missing in occasional spots. Plight maneuvered about the room with phenomenal ease, chair legs grinding across the floor as he brought it back to it’s original post by the coffee table.

“Right, well-” he began, rather chipper now that he wasn’t stumbling about half-blind in his own house (he was straight-up going to die if he tripped, this you were thoroughly convinced of,) “I’ll start on the coffee, I should definitely have a few packets left-”

“You don’t need to keep buying them off from us in bulk,” you added, sinking into the seat, cushion deflating from the added weight. “You can just buy them from cans for a lot cheaper.”

Plight froze in place, marveling in your general direction as if you’d just blown his mind.

 _“...Coffee comes from cans?”_ he wailed excitedly, and you had no way of deciphering the legitimacy of his reaction.

You wanted to explain to him that it was grown rather than just manufactured in cans, but you wouldn’t be too shocked if they found a nifty way to mass-produce the stuff already.

“Yeah,” you nodded slowly, stifling a snicker.

“Well, shit,” you heard him attempt to mutter covertly under his breath, removing the cap to comb through his hair with his fingers.

It was no news to you that Plight wasn't very well-endowed in the cranial department, but that was more cute than anything else.

...Not that you thought stupidity was adorable or anything- but the lamplighter's airheadedness was... a more acquired trait to get used to. Besides, he wasn't _stupid_. Just... not the brightest. This thought is further highlighted as you noticed your arms were folded atop a book that lay open across the table, with almost half of the page's words circled in bright, red marker. 

...Wait, this was a dictionary. 

Oooooh boy.

There was the flicker of movement from the corner of your eye as you settled in the squeaky leather of the ottoman, vaguely registering the soft shuffle of clothing as you spotted Plight in the corner of the room beside his bed, peeling off the thick overcoat he’d never once been seen without. His hat plunked off onto the pillow, messy hair bathed in the glow of the overhead lights.

The thought occurred to you on both the walk here and the multiple encounters before on just how tall the lamplighter was, but you guessed it must have never really clicked until just now. He stood at about roughly 6 feet tall, give or take a few inches that couldn’t be gauged with absolute certainty.  Even without his cap in the equation, the drastic height gap between the two of you was almost shameful- he had several inches over you and loomed almost imposingly when his presence was anywhere close to the general vicinity.

Additionally, you had previously failed to realize how inaccurate your original analysis of his body type had been; the one you made back at the diner weeks ago when he was hunched weakly over the booth. The only thing attributing to his lightness back could be loftily directed over to Plight’s malnutrition at the time- but the man was truthfully, far from scrawny. You could see that now, plain as day.

The lamplighter was an exceptionally well-built specimen of a man with arms toned and stout- he bore some semblance to a bear in your mind. You could see his muscles shift and smolder when his joints moved about beneath the soiled fabric of his shirt, handling the dishes and tableware in meticulous motions you’d never have predicted he’d been capable of in the first place. He made you feel quite small in comparison, but you had to admit that there nothing remotely underwhelming about the spectacle that was the lamplighter’s appearance, possessing the sturdy build of a lumberjack that you’d never suspected of him. Veiling himself in that coat all of the time, it was no wonder you'd never imagine it. 

You were just grateful he had his back turned to you, focusing rather intently on his task of preparing the coffee rather than paying attention to you. The fountain of excuses of were running dry, and you weren’t sure if you could chuck up anything plausible if he caught you ogling.

_Your blushing wouldn't really do wonders, either._

Leaning back against the table, your feet slid across the cold floor as the glass pieces clinked shrilly in response to the impact, hands folded atop your lap.

“I hope you don’t hurt yourself when you walk around,” you commented benignly, “There’s a lot of… stuff on the floor.” You felt stupid for even having to point it out, but you never really knew what was ever the case with the lamplighter. What if he genuinely didn’t notice?

...Or care?

“Hm? Oh, nah. Doesn’t bug me. Used to get in my shoes sometimes and that’ll be a nasty surprise, but that doesn’t really happen all that much anymore.” It was very disconcerting, just how casually he spoke about it.

“Anymore?” you repeated, perplexed.

“...Well,” he tilted his head, “It hasn’t happened recently, at least. Which is good, ‘cuz it’s painful to remove and there’s a lot of blood, sometimes.”

_Yeowch._

Repulsed by the thought, a shudder ran down your spine as you refrained from hyper-focusing onto the picture painted blithely in your imagination.

He approached about a minute after with your drinks, sliding the piping-hot mug of coffee across the table over to you as he cleared the desk, nudging objects off with a rusty tray. The particular absence of cream and sugar was made more dishearteningly apparent as you blinked into the dark thickness of the liquid, rippling in small rings as you dragged it over.

You gulped and stared conscientiously into the drink, casting a sidelong glance over to the lamplighter who, had been gazing over at you in an expectant warmth, as though desiring approval or some form of validation for his work.

"Thank you very much," you coughed, obligation lurching you overboard and coaxing you into taking a gulp. The coffee’s bitterness nearly made you gag, the acidic taste burning in the back of your throat like bile, raking across your tongue.

Plight had unfortunately bore witness to the involuntary muscle-movement from his spot, peering over to you with a doting sort of worry.

“Is it bad? Do you want me to make a new batch?” It was more an insistence than it was an inquiry, but you valued the fact that he had bothered to ask, anyways.

“I’m fine,” you sputtered, a knot forming in the pit of your stomach. “I’m just… not used to drinking coffee black.”

Plight nodded almost imperceptibly, fingers tapping against his own cup. “Sorry,” he said finally, “I don’t have any cream or anything here. I usually just drink it straight black and head out,” he explained, appearing very nauseated with himself as though he’d neglected something of the utmost importance.

“Oh, it’s okay-” you trilled abruptly, involuntarily flashing him that retail-honed doll-face. “It’s not a huge deal, anyways.”

“You sure? I can fix it, I really don’t mind-” he began again, restlessly seeking a chance to amend his mistake.

You could feel something sink, squinting back down into the mug. But you had to resolve yourself for this- for him. Betraying such a puppy-dog eagerness felt like a crime, and you weren’t the kind of person who easily backed out of things they’ve resolved themselves to. Well, usually.

_You didn’t know Plight was the attractive friend here until just now, anyways. There was a sort of unspoken integrity that had to be upheld, after all._

Obligation alone went a long way. Bringing the cup towards your lips, you pumped another gulp down your system and made the valorous effort to expel the flavor as hastily as your bodily functions would permit, but to no avail.

You quietly placed the drink back down onto the ruined mahogany of the table, absently blowing at the whirling steam.

“So,” you began a little helplessly, deducing that conversation was a good way to derail his attention away from you specifically, “You mentioned a Kelvin earlier?”

Plight looked up from his own mug, regarding you curiously with his crimson eyes. You awaken to the fact that they accentuated the airy violet of his hair marvelously well.

“He’s sorta like a neighbor. Sits in one spot, mostly, but I guess his joints might start rusting if he’s still for too long. He doesn’t like moving around much, though. Says it upsets the cats.” he explained, taking a swig.

“Cats?” you said, seizing the chance to distract yourself.

“Yeah, guess they like the warmth. Kelvin practically has a cat posse around him at all times. They like to wander down in here sometimes, which is why I like to keep the door open for them.” he motioned with his head over to the stairs, a drafty current sighing past your legs as if on cue. You shivered.

“He’s a robot, then?” you managed to piece things together from the connotations, but it never hurt to be sure. Unless humans could suddenly rust, of course.

“Yup. Apparently that was his original purpose. Guess he switched to something else after awhile, but wound up coming back. I mean, so long as he’s needed, right? I feel bad that he’s stuck in the gutters all day, but…” his attention pivots back over to you.

It felt as though he were searching you for something further, an unnerving conjecture of how you might next react.

“Is he tame?” you inquired innocently.

“Don’t think so. At least, I hope he isn’t. I can’t imagine it’s fun to lurk around trashbins and drunk assholes all the time, but even then he’d do it for others. His programming is pretty selfless.” he remarked, features alight with some strange crossbreed of worry and malcontent.

You nodded, intrigued. “Are you sure it’s okay to just leave the door open, though? I feel like someone might just… wander in.” Nothing about the notion sat right with you, at all.

“Usually not. I always keep it closed when I’m out, but sometimes I’ll forget to lock it, and some punks might get in. They don’t do much though, I ain’t got much worth taking. Mostly just leave their booze and cigarette butts lying around,” he huffed in between sips of his coffee, no longer heartily partaking in the drink.

Your own mug had grown cold, having been left virtually untouched. Guilt began weighing down your back.

...That did explain the cigarette burns you spotted on the desk- but to have the only safespace made available to you be infringed upon by random passersby? It was outright horrifying.

“... What time are you scheduled tomorrow?” you asked the lamplighter suddenly, who propped himself up off the wall and over to the sink, depositing his drained mug.

“I start at noon,” he answered, the two of you cringing in unison as the mountain of dishes clattered upon the added weight. He swore to himself as you peeked over.

“Okay,” you hummed, still hunched over from the sound, “I’ll be out and about tomorrow for a while, I’ll meet you up for lunch, then?”

“Uh, sure,” he began, scratching under his chin, “You have plans or something?” Plight began very deliberately, and you swore there was a defensive touch to his voice- as if he thought there was someone else besides him you hung out with.

Yeah, right.

“Sort of,” you avoided elaborating, “I’m definitely going to be in the sector you’re working in. I’ll stop by for a bit and grab us food,” you hummed, scanning about the room and the overall damage.

“That’s fine,” you heard him say from across the room with _very_ thinly-veiled desperation, and a “What are you gonna be up to?” He was almost pouting. 

“Oh,” you sigh, frowning at all of the cleaning you’re going to be doing tomorrow.

  
_“You’ll see.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUCC YEAH BORING FILLER AND PLIGHT EYE CANDY *eyes emoji*
> 
> ...But in all seriousness, I'm loathing the fact that each chapter I write gets progressively longer and seems to drone on and on. :^) Sorry once again if this chapter seemed boring, all of the juicy stuff that's going to happen won't be for a while. I cooked up literally everything this past week when discussing headcanons with various people. The anemia thing was decided by a friend of mine who suffered from it, so I hope I described it accurately!! I did some research on top of getting down actual testimonies, so uh... lemme know if I screwed up. ;;;
> 
> To any of the devs reading this tragic mess, please forgive me if I make any errors in detail about the setting! I had to uh... use my imagination for some parts when describing the city and it's inhabitants ;; (I hope to God they're not reading this shit oh jesus christ I'd die)
> 
> I promise juicy things will happen soon, nothing that'll bump up the rating unless you guys explicitly and personally tell me you want so :^)))))


	7. Housekeeping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I guess reader being tsundere is a thing, rip
> 
> 4/8/17 EDIT: Certain typos and errors were fixed, and small sections of the fic were brushed up. 60+ people saw this since the last chapter was out, that's embarrassing.

Keeping a herd of robots in a single-file line wasn’t exactly the cakewalk you thought it’d be.

Sure, they didn’t necessarily misbehave or push each other over like a mob of unruly children, but the bots would sometimes stray from the order to stop and analyze a square particle off in some corner of the alley. You expected them to… well, _know better than that._

Then again, virtually all of the blockheads were built with some intrinsic, unquenchable thirst for knowledge and learning- it was simply something that was embedded into their code. The newer models were built distinctly sturdier, and were considered infinitely more reliable than they had been years prior to the discovery of alloy something-or-other down at the mines.

The only reason you knew about the world’s harrowing progress into the industrial age in the first place, was because your father wrote paragraph after paragraph of it onto the letters he’d sent home, back when he was a still a miner who’d been hired for the infamous Barrens expedition. You were but a wee child back then- but could explicitly remember the sight of your mother milling back and forth anxiously between the kitchen and the living room, scared half-to-death with the perpetually-looming possibility that your father could have become just another casualty. Workers were stumbling into the gaping abyss left and right, or being buried alive by a cave-in because of a collapsed mineshaft. Anything that could go wrong, just… went wrong. _A lot._ Murphy’s Law sure made its damn point on those poor workers.

At least he came back alive and well- the same certainly couldn't be said for vast majority of the remaining miners. All of his limbs were still intact, unlike your uncle whose leg was crushed by a boulder thanks to some dumbass who didn't start counting _before_ he tossed the dynamite in. Apparently they had to saw it off to get it free- but nobody in the family had openly admitted this firsthand until you were in your later years. Supposed they wanted to spare a child the grisly details, though it still would have been cool to know. Potentially scarring, too, but eh. 

Somewhere along the line, you took note of this reminiscence and paused to try and recall which turn had led where. The back alley was a labyrinth of dead ends and mile-high walls of graffiti, and cruising through it wasn’t as easy as you presumed it to be the day before. The robots all ceased clunking behind you, gentle beeps and boops emanating from each one as they meandered behind your blundering guidance.

Well.... if Plight can do it, so can you.

You briefly fumbled with a sheet of paper jutting out from your pockets, crinkled from the carelessness of it’s handling. The transaction receipt for Rent-a-Bot had magnanimously listed each and every one of the names and serial numbers of the units you borrowed- all 6 of them. You really only needed 3 or 4 at most, but it was cheaper to rent the value pack of 6 than just hiring a smaller number individually. Prices had been driven up in the past month due to unexpected breakdowns, and the factory workers were apparently lagging behind on repairs necessary to keep prices reasonable. Dammit, guys.

A  few minutes more of blind roving finally had you stumbling across a familiar, decrepit warehouse door. You could even spot the same wrapper that had assaulted your leg the other day; a Bitemargin candybar wedged between the lid of a rusty garbage can.

Let’s see, there was…

Doing a quick head count, you noticed the line was one robot short.

“Oh no,” you groaned, grumbling out each individual name on the list as though you were a kindergarten teacher performing role call. 

“J9?” you called twice, three times- and earned no response. “J9, serial number 01837237,” you read monotonously off the paper, discreetly hoping that would somehow land you better results.

There was a series of confused beeping from about several feet down the corner you’d just passed, the beloved bot bumbling down the alley with the box full of cleaning implements you’d “borrowed” from the diner to accomplish today’s task.

A good lot of the cleaning equipment you took was rendered unusable by the new chemical laws passed in the Refuge- everything in the workplace’s arsenal was considered too high in toxicity to be safely used by the workers, even with the proper precautions executed. They were just going to throw everything out, anyways- you were being charitable in your actions by reliving your co-workers of some of these solvents, for sure!

 _Besides_ _, it's not like they could fire you if they never found out._

“Are you alright?” you asked the small bot, sizing it up for any perceptible dings or bumps. You _definitely_ couldn’t afford the fees necessary if one of them got eaten up by a square particle while your back was turned, so you were hesitant to be so dismissive of these robots.

[THERE IS NO ISSUE PRESENT. I SAW A CAT AND BECAME DISTRACTED.]

“A cat?” You pressed further, reluctant to ignore their earlier absence. The neighbor Plight had referred to yesterday rose to mind; the weird furnace-head with the cat harem. Suppose one of them was trotting around and crossed paths with the bot.

To be entirely fair, you’d have been distracted by a cat just as well if one had entered your line of sight. They were adorable as heck.

[YES, I APOLOGIZE FOR ANY DELAY I MAY HAVE CAUSED. ARE WE APPROACHING OUR DESTINATION?]

You began fiddling with the door upon J9’s arrival, relieved to see that Plight had left it unlocked accordingly as you’d instructed. It was shocking, really, that he didn’t actually bother to interrogate why you’d made such a strange (and sketchy) request in the first place. Surely the level of trust he held for you wasn’t so curiously high- or was he just _that_ compliant?

That… was troubling, in numerous ways. _People could have taken advantage of that so easily._

You resolved to make it a point to discuss that with him eventually- but for now, you had things that demanded your attention.

Pushing the weight of the door upwards, you hastily corralled the horde of robots down the stairs, ushering them inside of the lamplighter’s cavern. Once they had all entered with their corresponding box of supplies, you allowed the shuttered doors to slam shut firmly behind you, stirring up miniature puffs of dust from the weight of the impact.

[THIS ROOM IS A HAZARD FOR AN ORGANIC BEING SUCH AS YOURSELF.] One of the bots observed as you scampered down the steps, apparently having finished analyzing the room.

Well, they weren’t wrong.

“That’s exactly why you’re all here,” you clapped your hands together in response, briskly swirling around the bots and stepping over a broken glass jar towards the room’s hub, “This place needs to be cleaned from top to bottom. I need the floor to be swept, the stains removed from every visible surface, the furniture dusted, the phosphor lights replaced-”

All deeds you probably could have accomplished yourself with enough exertion, but the workload and strain alike would have been astronomical. Nothing you were capable of tackling with only a few hours before the lamplighter’s shift would end, and not without cutting corners.

[WHERE SHOULD THE GARBAGE BE DISPOSED OF?]

Well, the alleys were literally caked with trash at every visible corner and crevice. “Anywhere outside, I guess? I mean, at least a few yards away from here,” you gave a noncommittal shrug, all six robots beeping and blinking red in harmony with one another, as if communicating amongst themselves in a secret code only they could truly comprehend.

[UNDERSTOOD.]

As if on cue, the robots all lowered their boxes in unison and began rifling through the piles of household supplies and cleaning solutions, most of which were a little too potent and volatile for humans to be properly handling. You’re not certain how your workplace managed to smuggle them in from under the corporate’s nose, but it wasn’t as if that was really your concern. Some of the solvents were highly acidic and would probably melt the skin right off your bones if exposed to it for more than a few seconds- so it was best to leave the more irksome tasks up to the bots. Almost all of them nowadays were impervious to chemicals, so that was a juicy bonus.

There were however, several things on the list that would likely be carried out more efficiently if you personally saw to it. The fastidiousness of a human’s touch was not to be underestimated, even amidst this crumbling, automated world they dwelled in.

You spent the hours tiptoeing around the robots as they carried on their duties, occasionally disrupting you from your own objectives to inquire about the specifics of this or that. One of them wound up spitting out the contents of the vacuum cleaner all over the western section of the alleyways, making it even more dangerous for unsuspecting people to traverse. You decided to keep that to yourself- those ruffians lurking the streets and breaking into Plight's manshack had it comin'.

In their defense, also, you technically  _did_ say anywhere outside.

...Really, though. You felt as though you were enacting what practically would have been room service, replacing the bedsheets with something that wouldn't provide it's user with a rash, and adding to the mattress with some extra, fluffier blankets you procured from your closet. You flung on some additional pillows and cushions that no longer saw any use on your couch, giddy with the idea that perhaps Plight would sleep better with them in his possession.

You were so enamoured with your craft that you failed to realize that the hours had flown on by, only reminded of the promised rendezvous when a faint vibration emanated from your pocket to wrench you away from the task at hand.

“ _Hey there,”_ a woman’s voice chirped enthusiastically on the other end as you answered the phone.

“Hey, Jay?” You responded, tone inscrutable over the generated space of a mobile device. “What’s going on?”

 _“Hee-hee, that totally rhymed-”_ the birdfolk giggled cutely, _“But, oh! Where are you right now?”_

You slow blinked. “I’m not scheduled today, am I?” you inquired testily, “I shouldn’t be on the clock today. It’s Sunday- and I can’t come in to help with a rush because I’m out doing something.” You huffed, impatiently stamping a foot onto the ground. You crush a glass shard beneath you in the process.

_“Oh, I’m not asking you to come in! I’m here to let you know that your boyfriend is here waiting for you!”_

You nearly keeled over off the bed you’d been perched on, heart seized in your chest as you recovered from the vehement recoil.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you cried defensively, voice audibly strained.

 _“But you’re with him almost every day, even during shifts!”_ She tweeted merrily in response.

“Because there’s… nothing else to do!” You shot back, “And he’s…. A nice enough guy, I guess.” You puffed up your cheeks, not that anyone but the robots could see. They were indifferent to your struggle, regardless.

_“You talk about him all the time, though! Remember last week? You told me about the time he tripped over the pothole and grabbed onto you, and he almost pulled down your-”_

“OH MY GOD, JAY.” You threw up an arm into the air, exasperated. One of the robots stopped their task to look over at you, your distress an apparent point of concern. “We don’t talk about that. _Ever._ ” You hissed low into the device, eyes narrowing dubiously towards nothing in particular.

 _“Roger that!”_ Like water off a duck’s feathers. _“But really, he’s been waiting here for 10 minutes now! Are you gonna like, stand him up?”_

You worriedly checked the time. It was half-past five, thirty minutes earlier than when Plight had usually embarked on his lunch break. That was… unusual. Plight was the more fashionably late out of the two of you- consistently so.

“You’re kidding me,” you exhaled, rubbing the bridge of your nose. “Okay, I’m on my way. Get him whatever he orders, and tell him I’ll be there soon.”

 _“Will do-”_ Jay chimed.

“WAIT,” you screeched, narrowly catching her from hanging up the phone. “I forgot, he needs to be on a _very_ specific diet because of his vitamin deficiency, I just remembered. He needs his energy back, so get him stuff on the lean-cuisine section of the menu.”

There was a demure “uhh” lingering on the other end as you brainstormed the optimal entrees that would likely support his cause.

“Anything with dairy is ideal- meat is encouraged, too. He’s going to need the protein, maybe go for the T-Bone steak and eggs. Nothing too greasy, either, so go for whole-grain bread. Sourdough is decent if we’re out of stock, but let’s face it- everyone hates wheat bread. Nobody orders it, so we should be good.” You felt as though you were one of those fanatical parents, the types that lived out on the suburbs with picket fences and all- yelling at a poor, wilting barista about something as mundane as getting non-fat milk in your soy latte.

 _“I like wheat bread,”_ You heard Jay coo softly.

“I… okay.” You sighed, “Cool. _Tubular_. But you get the point. Get him a side salad too- he can’t ignore his greens.”

Jay was humming a tune on the other end of the line as she scribbled down the orders, and finally, _“You sound more like you’re married to him already, with how much you know-”_

“SHUSH,” you piped furiously, “Just please, hurry and get the orders out to him. I’m on my way.” you huffed, hanging up the phone.

You turned over towards the group of diligent robots, happily toiling away with their work. They’d made commendable progress- the extra hands had really made a visible difference in mopping up the lamplighter's miserable mess of a house. It seemed almost halfway livable, now- but it was anyone’s guess as to how long it would remain in such a condition beneath the lamplighter's questionable living standards.

“I’m going to head out,” you declared, “And should return in about an hour. I’d appreciate if you all wrapped this up by then,” you instructed very concisely, knowing that a misunderstanding or error in communication with a robot could end poorly. Well, they’d probably exhibit a great deal more sass if they were properly tame. At that point, they really should have been paying _you_ to harbor that sort of adversity.

[UNDERSTOOD. HAVE A GOOD EVENING.]

...Man. They were really sweet, sometimes.

Your legs were aching by the time you spun back onto the Refuge streets, placated with the movements of your muscles as they were no longer locked in awkward positions while you pitched in scrubbing the place from top to bottom. All of that hydrogen peroxide was going to find it's way into your dreams, surely. 

… Now that you think about it, you supposed it wouldn’t have been too bad if the lamplighter was your boyfriend. He kind of _is_ a hunk, so there weren’t many complaints you had in that department-

Oh God.

That thought did _NOT_ just cross your mind.

 

* * *

 

The diner was buzzing jovially with activity when you had arrived.

You zig-zagged past the serverbots and wove your way around the patrons as you spot Plight flag you down in a booth located in the western corner- your typical table of choice when you needed to text where the cameras couldn’t locate you. You only seated the favorites over at ol' faithful. 

You dove into the seat feet-first, shoes scuffing up the seating as you kicked your legs up onto the table.

“Damn,” Plight smirked, seemingly delighted with your obtrusive attitude. “You own the place, or something?”

“I should, with all the hours I’ve poured into this dump. You know I work more days a week than the managers here?” You scoffed, folding your hands behind your head, reclining into the seat. You detected two of the regulars present in the diner, seated several tables away. They gawked diffidently at the spectacle of you out of uniform, unused to the sight.

They can drink it in for as long as they wanted, for all you cared. So long as you weren’t clocked in, you were untouchable.

“Sorry for being late,” you started, wading through a few of the phone apps. “Jay called me up to get me here. I felt like a jerk for it.

He chuckled in a warm baritone, removing his cap and plopping it off next to your shoes. “Been a productive day, I guess. Already finished off a sector earlier than I thought I would, so I came by. ” he yawned, cramming a piece of toast into his mouth. You contemptuously eyed the toast for it;s outlying features before noting the color,  pleased that Jay had abided with your request of wheat bread. You knew she was your favorite co-worker for a reason.

Plight, thoroughly miffed at you eyeballing his food with such hostility, made a face.

 _“You ghood?”_ he attempted to speak with his mouth full, sputtering crumbs across the table which you dodged nimbly with ease.

“Graceful as always,” you lightly mocked, pulling your legs back and leaning forward to stretch your arms across the tabletop over to him, fingers greedily reaching out for his sleeve as they brushed past the threadbare fabric. You poked the lamplighter innocently on his hand to snag his attention, attempting to decipher his expression. “I really am sorry for taking so long,” you entreated with a withering frown, throwing on the puppy-dog eyes to assuage Plight if he’d been genuinely upset.

His gaze hesitantly shifted down to you, ruby eyes bright and vivid in stark contrast to the pale porcelain of his skin. “It’s cool,” he mumbled inconclusively, chewing a little slower. “I tried texting you that I went on break early, but I guess you were busy with…” he paused, the faint trace of a scowl forming on the contours of his face. _“Whatever.”_

You finally sat up straight, withdrawing your legs beneath the table properly where they belonged. You held Plight’s gaze evenly, and his countenance softened guiltily.

“Are you mad at me?” you gingerly implored, partially anticipating for him to slap your hand away. He made no effort to retract himself from your prodding, instead appearing increasingly forlorn as you prolonged the gesture.

“No, it's fine," he spat somewhat coldly, breaking physical contact as he rested with his back against the seat, head tilted upwards and staring emptily up at the ceiling. “Just felt… weird, today.”

He was deliberately avoiding eye contact now, and his dire change in tone was starting to get to you. Apprehension bubbled and frothed restlessly in your stomach, threatening to pull you under.

“Weird how?” You assessed, suddenly finding the lively clamoring of the diner to be insufferable. It was difficult to hear him clearly with all of the noise crashing down upon your ears- or maybe the tenseness of it all was just making you irritable.

A prudent silence befell the two of you before Plight had conjured something else to contribute.

“I don’t really know how to describe it. It just felt weird.” That didn't really help.

You were struck dumb at just how quickly the conversation had gone spiraling south, greeting the serverbot rigidly and with a waning smile as you passed the dishes over towards Plight.

You were thankful that you hadn’t bothered to order anything- your appetite was long gone now.

 _“Holy fuck,”_ Plight wheezed, eyeing the steak with predatory urgency. “Did you order this?” The hunger in his voice was satisfyingly palpable.

“It’s for you,” you idly remarked, “You get dibs on anything that comes this way. A protein diet is what the doctor recommended, so I’m sticking close to that. I _actually_ bothered to take in what they said.” you tutted cheekily, using this golden oppertunity to turn the tides in your favor.

“Good-” Plight barked in between ripping apart the steak with his incisors, completely disregarding the other utensils that would have proved to bear more fruitful results in his quest of eating. “Cuz I sure as hell don’t remember anything they told me.”

“I'm well aware,” you snorted, absently padding away the table surface with any smears the lamplighter made during his meal. Careless as per the usual, but that aspect of him grew on you almost instantaneously. Jay’s analysis wasn’t entirely off the mark, the two of you did occasionally act as though you were married to each other- such a thought was made more prevalent in scenarios similar to current one. Only a month had passed, and the sight of one of you without the other had become an extreme rarity.

...That was how rumors came to be, though. It might not have been a terrible idea to watch your back, especially since you’ve captured more than your fair share of jealous glares from passersby who would have gladly killed to be in your predicament. They would have been more easily deflected were it not for the ferocity of their envy from coveting your position, and that made you _immensely_ uncomfortable on a multitude of levels.

If Plight really did have his own fan club, you were certain someone had probably put up a photo of your face on a dartboard by now.

The lamplighter’s brow creased in discomfort as the incalculable minutes passed, coming to terms with just how callous his earlier attitude had seemed in retrospect.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like a dick,” he grunted finally with some difficulty, distressed by your uncharacteristic silence. You busied yourself with counting the cars that drove past the diner, hands folded atop the table as you watched over it all with a hazy mind. You closed your eyes and exhaled, denoting your somber mood.

“It was just weird not talking to you all day,” he admitted, voice laden with perceivable reluctance. His eyes darted from side to side, hoping to fixate on whatever held the potential to distract him.

_“I just got so…. Used to it, y’know?_

Oh.

_Oh._

You tapped the surface of the table thoughtfully, drawing your attention back over to the scruffy man and his stiff demeanor. You felt an impish grin make it’s way to your face, concentrating almost teasingly onto him. Plight scrunched up from this, expression souring.

“W-What?” he demanded, backing himself up against the seat of the booth.

“So,” you began conversationally, elbows up against the table as your relished the sensation of cornering him.

_“You missed me, then?”_

The response must have been a dizzying blow for him, because nothing coherent could be heard from the lamplighter a solid minute after you’d had him pinned.

“I’m just messing with you, geez.” you rectified lazily, drinking in the sight of his flustered, exasperated reaction towards your remark. Did you actually get under his skin, just like that?

“You know what? I take it back. Screw you.” Plight growled crossly, folding his arms across his broad chest. “I’m just trying to be honest, jackass.”

“Hey, don’t be like that,” you coaxed coyly, patting the table. “I have a surprise for you when you get home, too. That’s no way to be treating someone who's doing you a favor.”

He went completely rigid for a second, and you didn’t spare a single moment in derailing his train of thought- especially knowing damn well where you knew it was headed. His facial expression said it all; the vacant, far-out look, and undeniable, perverse tinge of hope glimmering in his orbs.

“Not like that, creep,” you sputtered, jerking backwards as you frowned disapprovingly. “It’s what I’ve spent all day doing. I wasn’t ignoring you or anything, I was just really preoccupied with getting this done.”

Plight was thoroughly enraptured in what you were speaking about, now, eyes glistening with childish curiosity at whatever you might have been insinuating.

You cleared your throat, a tad embarrassed by just how fervently he’d been regarding you in that moment.

“You’ll see when you get home, alright? I’m still not done, so-”

“You get me a new place?” he interrupted with gleeful wonder, unthinkingly clasping your hand in his own. It was indescribably warm- and much, MUCH larger than yours, easily engulfing your narrow fingers with his own digits. 

“N-No, do you seriously think I can afford that on my wages?” you mustered, feeling your face flush warmer than the lamplighter’s body temperature. If he’d taken note, he’d portrayed no signs of doing so. “Just… wait, alright? I’m still wrapping things up. Hurry up and… finish your food, or something,” you nudged insistently, throwing the podium a desperate glance over your shoulder. "And you'd better not waste any of it! This is coming out of my paycheck, you know." He chortled in the background, happily obliguing with your demand. It never was quite within the lamplighter's character to turn down a free meal- or any sort of food offering in general. 

God, that T-Bone steak was going to be killer on your check, even with the employee discount.

 

* * *

 

Your joints were screaming for sweet mercy by the time the chores had been thoroughly completed.

Every inch of your body was drenched in an insufferable ache as you shambled across the city with those same robots strutting obediently behind you, the soreness only worsening the more you pushed yourself.

Technically speaking, it wasn’t necessary of you to escort the robots back to the Rent-a-Bot building, but the contract decreed that they were basically on the clock until the precise moment of their arrival back at their designated establishment. The robots had their own autopilot mode installed and had the coordinates to the place built-in, so you could have just let them go back on their own and called it a day if you _really_ lacked the patience.

Thing was, the robots were extraordinarily vulnerable on their own, somehow. Square particle casualties were happening with such frightening frequency that you couldn’t comfortably sit back and let them wander off on their own. Knowing your atrocious luck, all 6 were probably going straight to the junkyard if you didn't keep them in line. If one of them wound up getting a face full of squares, that was a 3,000 dollar replacement fee right off the bat that you’d have to cover, and that was _on top_ of the rental costs.

Not repair, but _replacement._

The second a square had made direct contact with anything, that was it. They were done for. They were dead in every possible sense of the word- or at the very least, fucked-up beyond all recognition. You caught wind that the scientists back at the factory just threw out the scrap metal instead of wasting further time re-purposing it for anything else.

You especially didn't want that for little J9. He was your favorite of the squad.

Essentially, it was in your best interests overall to walk the robots back in order to minimize the damage to your wallet.

The return trek to the lamplighter’s place was more excruciating than you’d have initially hoped it to be, naturally. Quite a few of the pedestrians would shoot you quizzical looks as you dragged yourself like a zombie across the street and lumbered into the shady ol’ back alleys, where they may have assumed you were just looking for a place to keel over and die. You faintly remember reading from somewhere that dogs do that when they're nearing their... expiration. Ouch.

You rapped a knuckle feebly against the walls of now-not-so-shitty-looking bunker, signifying to Plight that you’d arrived. “It’s me,” you rasped breathlessly, uncertain of how much you actually trusted your legs in carrying you down the stairs. They were trembling dangerously by the time you’d made it down, about to readily collapse onto the ottoman before you spot Plight rush towards you with unprecedented speed, scooping you up with his strong arms and crushing you with his bear-like grip.

The scent of phosphor overwhelmed your nostrils as your cheeks became involuntarily pressed into his coat, flooded by the warmth of his body as you discovered you were far too enfeebled to bother freeing yourself. If this was how it ended, you could declare with hearty authenticity that you seriously didn't mind. At all.

“I-I can’t tell if you’re happy or trying to choke me to death,” your fingers inadvertently twitched and grasped at his sides, hapless.

“You did it,” he laughed hysterically, yet to relinquish his grip, “You _actually_ managed to clean up this shithole of a place! I can see the actual floor for the first time in years, the walls don’t ooze like somethin’ out of a fucking horror film, and- Oh God. You put actual chairs in here-” he spoke so excitedly, bobbing you around back and forth as he swept about the room. 

This… was kinda nice, actually.

“Y-Yeah,” you choked, face rubbing ticklishly against the smoothness of his shirt. The aching in your legs had diminished to a dull throbbing when he’d finally set you down, flopping you down onto his bed as he flitted to and fro about the room.

You propped yourself upright against the walls, shyly tugging a nearby pillow over towards you atop your lap.

The phosphor stains had been removed from the floor to the best of the robot's abilities, the acrid stench of chemicals still wafting pungently about the air. Anything metal in the room had been refurbished and scrupulously polished to a gleaming finish, the cigarette burns treated and the plethora of books stacked neatly up on the desk with as much room as was made available. Any stray glass jars had been cast into a cardboard box hidden in the north-eastern corner of the room closest to the desk, safety tucked away.

“Oh, man,” he balked, running a hand through his violet locks. “... How do I even begin to pay you back for this?” his expression turned dour, as if he'd just been locked into another debt. 

You shifted uneasily, kicking off your shoes and tucking your legs in atop the bed. That really wasn't what you had intended to do at all, but it was very reasonable for Plight to make assumptions given the unfortunate predicaments he'd befallen in the past. It was only natural for him to think there was some sort of catch. 

“You don’t need to,” you started, partially unfocused on the conversation just because of the sheer exhaustion that coursed through your weary body. The day’s events were substantially more taxing on you than anyone could have accurately predicted; but it was worth it.

Plight’s cherry eyes widened in disbelief, opening his mouth to protest but the words ultimately evading him. “You’re kidding me, right?” he urged, “I can’t just accept something like and not-”

“I did it because I wanted to,” you injected as much conviction as possible into your words, perhaps coming off a little more forceful than intended. “I don’t want you to pay me back, honestly. If anything, the only thing I ask for in return is that you keep this place clean.” You coughed, quietly reveling in how wonderful of a job you and those robots did, sizing up the room in all it's underwhelming glory. 

Well, they did _most_ of the work, but he didn’t need to know that. You deserved to be spoiled a little, too.

“...And maybe some coffee? I feel like I’m about to pass out,” you lamented despondently, squirming atop the mattress. You gave him a humble smile, one which you found his gaze had been seemingly impassioned with in that single moment, as if he saw something there.

The lamplighter grinned from ear to ear, pulling his thick jacket from off his bulky build before arranging the clean trays with small containers of creamer and mugs.

...Wait, creamer? Oh, geez. Did he actually go and-

  
_“Anything for you.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, you wouldn't believe how tricky it was to get this one done. Maybe I wasn't feelin' the groove, but I did my best to try and portray what I wanted to in this chapter!! This was another long one, but I sort of abandoned all hope in keeping the chapter short because I have so many things planned that I want to get down. I never anticipated the fic to be this long in the first place, funny how it is what it is, now!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who had been so kind to me, every kudos, comment and bookmark makes me smile like a dork and spurs me to write more! Your support means the world to me, you guys are too sweet!!! <3 
> 
> That said, I look forward to seeing you all in the next chapter~!
> 
> (Useless trivia: the serial number used for the robot was straight up my middle school lunch code. God knows how I still remembered that, lmfao)


	8. Beach Bummer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE OBLIGATORY BEACH EPISODE GONE WRONG THAT NOBODY ASKED FOR. 3 MONTH TIME SKIPS ARE FUCKING FUN
> 
> Also, the chapter title earned it's name from a [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sp8H2pqR6rA) I really like lmao

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo, do me a solid and play [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PMk21jK8X1U) when you get to the scene where they arrive in the lake. c: Irrelevant, but this fic hit 666 views when I posted this. Guess Satan likes them some Plight??????

 

Summertime came scorching down upon the Refuge.

Well, ‘down’ would have been the incorrect term to use given that the lack of sun meant no rays of sunshine would come blazing across the city from above. In actuality, all of the heat came from directly _below._

For reasons you never quite understood, the geothermal plants were all functioning at their prime during the summer, absorbing all of the heat from some underground source that pulsed with energy more notably around this time of year. The energy output that subsequently followed meant that power would be overflowing in abundance, meaning the scientists that kept the Refuge afloat could finally catch a break and slow down the phosphor production. Not that you knew much about how thermodynamics worked, of course- that was a problem best left up to the lab nerds.

Less phosphor meant less work for Plight, who sure wasn’t going to complain about all of the free time on his hands, now. Slaving away for a paycheck no longer became as prominent of an issue the past few months since the spring where you bought his freedom, so that was a tasty bonus.

Unfortunately from what you had understood,  the factory only managed to draw just enough power to provide for the city alone, and were incapable of storing this power long enough to where it’d have been a suitable replacement for phosphor. Damn shame, too. Just when everyone thought they were on the verge of a breakthrough, it always seemed to hit some sort of dead end. _Wasn’t that just how things always went?_ They could spit out just as much as they took, a fair trade given how one good summer in the Refuge meant a decent rest of the year. As much as you loathed to admit it, cooking alive in this heat was a necessary sacrifice for prolonging the life of the world.

Hah. It almost sounded heroic, when phrased like that.

The downside to all that overflowing energy, though? The excess that radiated from the plants would come forth from every corner of the city, secreting blasts of heat from the numerous vent systems that veined beneath and through the city itself.

_In other words, it was hot as balls._

Air conditioners in the city went largely unused until summer rolled around, as it was more common for the Refuge to be chilly year-round rather than be struck with the 1-in-a-1000 heat wave currently wracked the crimson metropolis. Some of the apartments didn’t even have them installed, which made for an absolutely torturous experience for those who dwelled on the upper, newer floors that were constructed in a mad rush to accommodate the rising populations. A pretty killer oversight, if anyone asked you.

To top it all off, the temperature reached record peaks this year. The weather reporter had been droning on that it was the worst heatwave to have hit the Refuge in years even before the sun had gone out, further discouraging the denizens from going on about their daily lives lest they be toasted alive from their own energy source.

Alas, nothing could put a stop to the raucous tempo of the Refuge.

Children, bouncing gleefully out of school with stars in their eyes and pockets stuffed to the brim with their allowance. Teenagers, cackling and catapulting packets of jam across the room to each other and requesting 12 orders of the double-chocolate chip mint brownie milkshake with extra whip, cookie crumbs and hot fudge; only to complain about the extra charge. But the parents, oh God, the parents- their children screaming at the top of their lungs like some demon spawned from the 9th circle of Hell, wine moms squawking about ‘why is this medium steak only marginally red' _which is exactly what a medium fucking steak is supposed to look like, Carol._

Every work day for you had inevitably malformed into a non-stop dinner rush.

A long time ago, summer meant something to you, too.

Summer vacation was the golden dream all of the children strove to attain, free to frolic and romp under the streaming rays of sun without hindrance from the world. It offered to you the allurement of eternal excitement, that immutable sense of eternal promise that made the season sweet against your tongue and velvet to the touch. It was that concept of limitless possibility that once made your heart soar, but now that shade of summer-sky blue only further sunk you beneath the waves.

While you were thankfully unscheduled this weekend as every other, this heat only made the day unbearable to stew in. As vindictive as your cruel luck would have it, the air conditioner hadn’t been functioning properly when it had been needed most. While the timing was sub-optimal,  that was when being near-besties with a handyman had it’s friendly reminder of nifty benefits!

A phone call and a good 30 minutes later, Plight had shown up at your door completely drenched in sweat with a bag of tools slung over his broad shoulders, looking extremely exasperated with your summon. It was impossible not to pity him, and you wasted no time in ushering him inside and fetching him a can of soda from your caffeine stash after  having beckoned him in this loathsome heat. His coat had been tied loosely around his waist, on the verge of slipping.

...Truthfully, you weren’t sure how much longer of this sweltering suffering you could tolerate, anymore. It was barely 1 in the afternoon and you were melting into the couch, reduced to a loose-fitting tank top and pair of denim shorts that were, frankly, too criminally short for your tastes. You hooked a thumb beneath a shoulder strap, tugging absently against the cloth as you stared with eyes half-lidded grimly into the television screen that flickered noisily, generating a mindless babble that filled the stuffiness of the room.

The windows had been thrown wide open, the breeze blowing through the translucent, pearl-white curtains that billowed high into the ceiling before fluttering gently back down like the shaking wings of a butterfly, rippling above the carpet and nearly whapping Plight in the face on a couple of occasions. Everyone else on the floor seemed to have the right idea, judging from the sounds emanating from the outside that flew inwards, singing to you the rhapsody of summer’s enticing influence.

The apartment next door with that nosy security bot was blasting vaporwave, while someone from the leftmost room was yelling incomprehensibly in rage at some unseen force. Such liveliness.

“How much longer?” you wailed impishly, fanning yourself with an old edition of a “Cutest Robots” magazine. The only working fan in your possession had been loaned to the lamplighter while he repaired your particularly adamant air conditioner, hoping that’d motivate his productivity level.

“You owe me another soda for every time you ask me that,” he grunted in response whilst fiddling with a few of his tools, evidently occupied with his task of getting the air conditioner up and running. Thing was, he was only half-joking.

You let out an unsatisfied gurgle, sliding further down onto the sofa. “What happened to the six pack in the fridge? I bought that last night.”

“I drank the last can an hour ago. I was actually gonna bug you to get me another one sometime soon,” he wiped off his hand on a old dish rag you kept lying around somewhere in the kitchen, turning over to what little of you he could see poking from the couch. “Wanna do me a solid and get me some more from the vending machine down the hall?”

“Not really,” you scoffed, tone drenched in melodrama. “The high today is supposed to be 105 degrees, I could get heat stroke!”

Plight stepped off from the chair he’d been using as a makeshift stool, pivoting the fan’s direction with a foot as he leaned against the top of the couch, nearly jabbing the side of your head with an elbow. The scent that wafted over to you from Plight was musky and strange to the senses, but you refrained from inching yourself away in a gesture you knew fairly well would be perceived as impolite.

“From goin’ down the hall to grab me a soda? Nah. ‘Sides, you owe me for not telling me it’s hot as literal hell here on the upper floors.” he remarked with a lazy yawn, unable to invest himself into the program displayed on the screen.

“That’d be because heat rises,” you hummed decisively, bringing your knees up to your chest as you tapped a few buttons on the remote control. “I’d live on the lower floors if I could, but this was the only apartment available when I moved in. It’s not my fault, you know.”

Plight, thoroughly and pettily upset with such composed sentiment, frowned and jabbed you lightly in retaliation. “I’m gonna steal the remote if you don’t do it.” He threatened in faux-displeasure, his touch quite sudden and lingering faintly on your skin.

“Hey, don’t confiscate my remote!” You gave a pout and held the remote close to your chest, fingers tightening protectively and tenaciously around the object. It wasn’t like you really cared about watching the news any further, but it was one of those things you particularly enjoyed having in your possession.

“I’ll coffin skate whatever I want,” he retorted whilst reaching over to snatch the remote from your grip. You relinquished the hold for a moment, though only because the roaring fit of laughter that came thundering forth couldn’t be held back any longer. You were heaving for air by the time you’d finished howling, struggling to process the lamplighter's beloved idiocy.

Plight gazed over at you, utterly baffled with the outburst. Wiping a single tear from your eyes, you stared back at him with a coy grin before whispering back, repeating in that kittenish tone, _“Coffin skate? Are you serious?”_

“Fuck you and your dictionary words,” he sneered back with a wilting growl, hoisting himself off the couch and sauntering back into the kitchen where he began raiding the fridge. You flipped yourself around and pressed your stomach against the couch just in time to see him leave empty-handed, a visibly crestfallen expression plain on his face. The heartache of a fruitless kitchen search was nothing to sneeze at.

“Isn’t it hot at your place, too?” Another breeze gusted through, buffeting you with it’s warmth and mussing up your hair.

“It’s like a fucking toaster oven down there,” Plight swore ardently, padding away the beads of perspiration from his forehead, “I was going to invite you over to watch somethin’ with me on that new flat screen I bought-”

“Which I’m super jealous of, by the way,” you made a face and interjected, flinging the remote carelessly beside you. It bounced off of the cushion and collided painfully with your hip. Ouch.

The lamplighter grinned smugly over at the display of envy, pointing over with the tip of a Phillips head screwdriver.  “Would have been down for Catflix and chill, but I like us both a lot more when we aren’t microwaved.”

Your arms dangled off from the sofa, head angled sideways as you wordlessly observed Plight at work. There was something quite enamouring about the way he worked, the way his body moved so fluidly as one to carry out his tasks, the way his hair fell while he toiled away-

Of course, the stifling heat expulsed you from that same position after a mere minute had passed, and you decided to fish for loose change in order to go retrieve Plight’s payment. Supposed you should get it over with before the laziness kicked in.

“Be back in a minute,” you proclaimed, closing the door shut after receiving the lamplighter’s grunt of affirmation.

The pitter-patter of your feet atop the catwalks reverberated loudly through the metal grating underfoot, only stopping once you’d reached the vending machine roosted on the opposite end of the elevator platform.

You inserted the coins and jammed a finger against the button that would have dispensed you that precious can of Gira-Cola, had the machine not made a rather alarming buzz of protest against this course of action. Baffled, you did what any sensible human being would have done in your situation- and pressed the button again.

Repeatedly. Over and Over.

_“Give. Me. The. Damn. Cola.”_

That incessant buzzing refused to cease with each subsequent push, the machine finally taking the initiative to give it straight since you clearly couldn’t take the hint.

[THIS PRODUCT IS SOLD OUT.]

You blinked, mind throwing up a temporary blue-screen. _“It’s sold out?”_

[YES. PLEASE STOP HITTING THE BUTTON.]

Um.

“You’re kidding me. That’s like, the only thing he drinks!” You grumbled, bapping the button again out of sheer frustration.

[HITTING THE BUTTON WILL NOT CHANGE THE FACT THAT THERE IS NO MORE SODA LEFT.]

 _Wow. Fucking sassmaster._ Of course the mechanics just HAD to design dispensers and automated vendors that talked back. These things were all over the city now, too- what were the people supposed to do if they all got tamed and decided not to function because they didn’t _feel_ like it? Ugh.

There weren’t any other worthwhile beverages in this damn thing. Plight didn’t touch anything diet, and Gira-Cola Zero was essentially the same as drinking sludge. Lemonade wasn’t carbonated, he wasn’t a fan of Ginger Ale, Moonkist was basically inferior to orange Phanta, and Fountain Dew had him bouncing off the walls.

You had to at least bring him back _something_ , though. It’d be way too shady if you didn’t.

The entire platform jiggled somewhat as the cars rushed past hundreds of feet beneath you, unsupported by metal beams. You vaguely remember from science class that heat tends to make things brittle- something you had to teach Jay when handling the coffee pots. They had to be used delicately after they’ve recently finished a batch, or else they’d crack and the entire thing would be rendered unsafe to use.

You briefly wondered how the Glensfolk must fare in this type of abusive weather. Their feathers must have done a superb job in keeping them warm, but they couldn’t exactly pluck everything off once summer was in full swing. Well, not painlessly, at least.

Maybe the Glens swampwater and lakes kept them cool for the summer. Even the community and rooftop pools here were uncomfortably warm and probably crowded right now with screaming kids and… robots and… screaming kid robots.

...Suddenly, you’re struck with a thought.

You sincerely hoped for numerous reasons that Plight had a swimsuit available.

* * *

It was still relatively early in the afternoon when you and the lamplighter had assembled everything you needed to embark on the outing. The gatekeeper was a colossal guardian bot, with a massive scroll tucked beneath one an arm as moss and plant life had taken residency on the surface of it’s armor plating. You tentatively waved over to it as you passed by before quickly, you backpedaed over to it.

You made it a point to check if both you and Plight’s names were scribbled on the list in the case that you needed confirmation before entering through the gates, since security was getting beefed up more and more lately. A single swing from such a heavy bot could probably send you into orbit if you tried anything funny, so it was safer overall to make sure you had a ticket back in before you decided to break into the city.

The temperature was nowhere near as broiling as it was just beyond the Refuge walls, if not a bit muggier. You guessed that was to be expected, swamplands and all.

“You never told me that was your real name,” You began absently sorting through the contents of the old picnic basket, having ordered you and the lamplighter’s favorite sandwiches to go while the two of you made the earlier dash through downtown.

“Huh?” he began stiffly, his shoe colliding with a rock as it spun into the murky waters.

“All this time, it didn’t occur to me that you never actually told me your birth name.” You spotted a ram romping around the loamy soil in the distance, a lone shepherd herding them away from the dark waters that lapped the verdant shoreline.

Plight jammed his hands into his pockets, jacket slung over his shoulder with a plastic bag full of… something hanging from his left arm. “Because it kinda sucks. I hate it.” he sniffed, adjusting his cap. “Haven’t actually gone by it since senior year, and even then I just went by a nickname.”

“I don’t think it’s that bad, honestly. It’s very… Victorian?” you hummed, contemplating what a high-school lamplighter would look like. Maybe he wore one of those cool varsity jackets- everyone looked slick in one of those. “...Charles Thomas, huh?”

He rolled his eyes at you, scratching his chin. “Ugh. It sounds weird when you say it,” Plight dithered for a moment, visibly confounded by something. You weren’t sure if he was legitimately irritated that you’d said it out loud.

“Relax. Plight suits you more, it’s really grown on me,” you chimed, basket swaying as you hop-stepped over the muddier parts of the landscape that threatened to splatter your outfit. It’d be of little consequence provided you actually found a decent spot to take a dip in, but so far the Glens had provided you with a seemingly endless supply of muck and moss.

You trotted over the wooden bridge into the small village, various tarps streaming in the wind as ornate jars dotted the landscape. It took a bit of effort not to trip over them due to the sheer volume of jars scattered about, earning a few coy giggles from the local children who were delighted at your bumbling. Plight didn’t fare much better, knocking over a jar of water as one of the birdfolk twittered angrily in his general direction, mumbling something about the carelessness of the city folk.

This wasn’t your first venture to the Glens, but it may as well have been given how tourist-y you’d been behaving. The locals were astonishingly friendly, a few of them chirping about how rare it was to see someone actually come _out_ from within the Refuge and offering you bowls of algae soup as some sort of traditional act of kindness. You sheepishly tucked the picnic basket behind you and politely declined their offer, feeling a tad foolish. Jay’s family lived somewhere within this village, you recall.  You’d have stopped to say hello had you actually bothered to ask about her parents, but you can tell that Plight was getting rather impatient with this crusade. It was best not to waste too much time.

The path was illuminated softly by the glow of the fireflies, some of which were kept in jars presumably left by the locals to navigate across the Glens.

The temperature was, in all honestly, perfect when you’d finally reached the lake. The water was an inviting shade of emerald, a cooling little breeze rippling across the crystalline surface of the pools as the small, white-tipped waves broke lightly against your feet. You knelt over and dipped a hand into the water, savoring the revitalizing coolness. It felt absolutely delightful against your skin.

Plight shuffled behind you, plopping his plastic bag against the ground. “You know,” he started, the mischievous tone palpable even with your back turned, “Hunching over like that is only making it more tempting for me to push you in.”

You looked over your shoulder, grinning. “Can you maybe wait until I’m at least dressed for it?”

“Not my fault you’re in the ideal position.” he shrugged dismissively, making his way beside you as he tested the water for himself. “Damn, that feels nice,” he whistled, plucking off his cap and fanning himself with it.

“Right?” you crooned wondrously, “But I need you to stay put for a bit, alright? I’m going to go change behind that tree,” you motioned over to a phosphor tree leaning towards the shore, a sickly light emanating from it’s charcoal bark.

The lamplighter sat cross-legged atop the grass with his hand jammed in the picnic basket, gazing over to you with an unreadable expression and a very, very skeevy glint in his eyes. “Oh?” That opportunistic streak was showing again.

You deadpanned and stuck a tongue out, ducking behind the luminous tree and slipping into the swimwear you bought two summers ago back when vacation outings with your family was a thing you did. You partly wished you could check your reflection to smooth out any faults you spotted, but in the end it’d only have amplified the anxiety that thrummed in your chest.

Sighing a little more despairingly than intended, you trotted out from behind the phosphor tree and took a seat besides the basket, folding your clothes neatly in a compartment separate from the food. You gazed back out into the surface of the water, hoping to distract yourself from the fact that Plight had been staring fixedly at you since the moment you had emerged. It… wasn’t working too well. The lamplighter was in the process of chewing through his sandwich before he’d stopped entirely to gawk at you, as if he weren’t capable of balancing two tasks at once.

“Good food?” you inquired, looking out across the water where the thrilling expanse of the open, black sea unfolded just beyond the contours of the lake. The fireflies skimmed in dreamy trails across the air, their light glinting off the water as they hovered about the dark skies. They looked like little green stars, a shifting constellation dotting the sky and reveling in absence of the sun.

The scenery was idyllic- even Plight had to pry his eyes away from you to take in the picturesque tranquility of the lake. “Mhm,” he mumbled weakly, unsuccessfully wiping the crumbs off his shirt.

You gazed over to Plight a little daringly, wanting so badly to relish in just how quickly he’d turned his head away the moment you had done so. The lamplighter was a person of conspicuous intent, and damn if that wasn’t fun to poke fun at.

_“Just take a damn picture, it’ll last longer.”_

You chuckled airily, shrouding your embarrassment by a narrow margin as you found the way his body jerked at your words to be so utterly delectable. Plight was choking on his sandwich now, coughing up bits of food as he covered his mouth with a hand. Heaven forbid you found _immense_ satisfaction with just how red his face was, watching how he writhed and struggled to compose himself after you’d fired your shot.

He tugged at his collar in a very agitated manner, keeping his eyes level with the lake. “...Didn’t think you were a polka-dot type of person is all,” he cleared his throat, acutely aware of his poorly-veiled attempt of dismissing his actions.

“What, does it look bad?” you tilted your head and blinked innocuously, focusing on his reaction for the sake of amusement.

“Not at all,” he fired back so suddenly that he’d almost cut you off, tearing apart the bread with his teeth.

“...You know you’re not supposed to eat before you swim.” you laughed.

“That’s just a myth,” he waved away the concern, probably not actually knowing any better.

The two of you sat in silence for a moment, drinking in the beautiful stillness of the afternoon. Then very suddenly and without warning, Plight had risen from his spot and pulled off his shirt, flinging it off to the side and kicking off his work pants before he began charging straight into the lake surf. You gingerly removed the pants leg that draped itself atop the basket, peering over into the water as you spotted his head bob up from the miniature waves. He threw his head back, combing his fingers across the damp hair that obscured his vision.

Dear God. And you thought Plight was attractive with his clothes _on_.

The lamplighter was a bit leaner than expected, comprised of tight muscle and bursting at the seams with vigorous youth. You thought it might have been nice to just sit here and admire the view, and never had you been so horrified with a revelation such as this where you realized in a matter of minutes, you and Plight had switched places. You heaved yourself up off the soft grass and decided to take a run into the lake, before common sense had regained hold of the reins and stopped you.

It was indescribably cool against your skin, the jade waters exceptionally and heavenly clear for a body of water located smack in the middle of marsh territory. Somewhere up ahead, Plight hollered in approval.

He back-stroked over to you, staying perfectly afloat atop the pristine waters. It was made evident that the lamplighter was a much, _much_ better swimmer than you were, something which had actually granted you mild solace in knowing that he could probably save you if you began drowning. You never intended to stray too deep into the waters, as that was the border where the waves had become dubiously murky. Well, not so much murky as it was diluted; cloudy. Nothing that could bode well, you rationed.

You splashed over to him, bobbing serenely as the delicious coolness of the water overtook your senses.

“Told you this was going to be a good idea,” you said so matter-of-factly, smiling.

“Hah,” he smirked, waggling a little to stay afloat, “Not bad. I’ve only ever been here in the past to go fishing, I woulda snuck into the pool parties the frat boys threw here if I knew it was this nice. I thought it was all swamp.”

“You can fish?” You blinked, nudging a floating moss ball away.

“A little. Used to do it a lot when I was younger, but I wasn’t super good.” he bobbed relaxedly on his back, “Maybe I’ll take you one of these days. Lost my equipment, but I’m sure it’s just buried somewhere in the closet.”

“I’ve never gone before,” you announced, swimming circles around him and sizing up his appearance rather merrily. His eyes were facing upwards into the black sky and the storm of fireflies, his expression the most peaceful you’ve seen in a long while.

You took in a deep, calming breath of air, something akin to happiness stirring within you as time flew by chatting together with Plight as you swam, just the two of you resting lazily amidst the sparkling lake. You reached out a hand towards a firefly that flit itself over, entranced by it’s gentle light before catching Plight looking over to you once more. The atmosphere shifted somewhat, in that moment.

Plight abruptly dove under, leaving a trail of bubbles in his wake as you paddled backwards from the spot where he’d submerged himself. His silhouette reappeared just moments later beneath the glassy surface, and you felt his arm around your legs faster than the water that forced it’s way into your lungs. You squealed in alarm, coughing out tiny plumes of bubbles as he dragged you further down, his laughter muffled and charming beneath the muteness of the waves. It was dark, however, so deep down that the phosphor trees and the starry insects were mere fragments of a dream.

Suddenly frightened, you groped blindly out into the darkness and brushed your fingers against his skin, desperately clawing over to the lamplighter as a show that you wanted out, _and now._ You felt his arms snake around your waist in response to your distress, pressing you close. You face brushed against his rough, unshaven face, a rather beguiling contrast to the softness of his skin- you idly considered that Plight would have made for an ideal Siren. Hell, he could have lured you in with laughable ease.

Or perhaps he’d already succeeded in his attempt, long ago.

The two of you breached the surface, gasping for air as you broke away from him the moment you were permitted the mental and physical fortitude to do so.

“C-Could you maybe _not_ try to drown me?” you began hacking up freshwater, dribbling down your chin as Plight glided seamlessly over and supported your weight with both hands, keeping you from reeling back into the water.

“Hey, hey. I’m sorry, I didn’t think it’d be that dark down there,” he reassured in vain, calloused hands stroking your back. You would have nestled into it have you not been trapped between the cusp of coughing your lungs out and hyperventilating all at once.

“It-It was so dark,” you choked out, feeling in that moment as if you were a child again. You shivered, the water suddenly arctic against your bare skin. It felt painful. It felt cold.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, holding you just a little tighter. You allowed this, mostly because you felt the strength to rebel ghost out of your body. At the very least, you could tell that Plight genuinely meant it. “I wouldn’t have let you drown, though. I’d make sure you wouldn’t have gotten hurt.”

Somehow, you found yourself drifting languidly back to the shoreline.

“Really?” You implored, another cough escaping you.

“Really. I swear on my own life,” he reaffirmed with more fire in his eyes than resolutely entwined in his voice.

You chose to believe him.

_"Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey!”_

A voice cheered too dangerously close for comfort, blindly interrupting whatever excuse of a moment was shared between the two of you.

You heard that lilting voice, clear as day and as sprightly as the summer sun, coming from the direction of the picnic bag and pile of clothes you two had discarded. One of the local children, a birdkin of navy-blue plumage, hopped and waved with her wings in the air, chirruping joyfully. Her little bird feet pattered softly against the grass as she sped over to the shore, meeting you halfway as she bounded in her spot.

...How long has she been standing there?

“Uh, hello,” Plight began nervously, waving over to the child, "...Who are you?"

“I'm Alula!" she squawked, clapping her wings together. You swore you saw little black fingers beneath her silky plumage. "What are you guys doing?” the child chimed, her woven dress fluttering and swaying in the breeze. Said breeze wasn’t so pleasant, now that you were completely drenched and physically exhausted.

“Swimming. Well, um,” you cast a sidelong glance back into the emerald lake, glistening innocently as if it hadn’t almost killed you, “-trying to. It’s hot back in the city, so we came here to relax. Sort of.”

“Woooooooooooooooooow!” she grinned from ear to ear, chirping in the most endearing manner as she flapped her arms wildly. “I’ve never seen anyone go swimming in Snake Lake before!”

Somewhere, a record scratched. You and Plight exchanged the same, horrified look before glancing back down at the child, screeching out in unison:

_“SNAKE LAKE?”_

You and Plight both screamed in sync with each other, Alula joining in the session whilst shrieking in an equally loud pitch, a silly grin on her face as if she were playing some sort of game.

“Yeah!” She threw her wings in the air, feathers bouncing cutely atop her head. “Big bro says some of the world’s most venomous snakes live in that lake! It’s why everyone leaves this place alone, but I didn’t think anyone would ever swim in it! You city folk must be like, _super_ brave!”

“Oh my God.” A shudder speared through you, collapsing besides the basket.

“Didja get bit? I hope not, because they poison is supposed to uh… para-lize? It sends you into shock and like, your muscles stop working and you drown! I heard there’s one in the lake that can kill you INSTANTLY with it’s venom!”

Plight unfurled his coat and draped it comfortingly over your shoulders, it’s fluffy warmth quickly enveloping you. Now you know why he coveted this thing so damn much- it surpassed most of the blankets you’ve ever owned in terms of comfiness.

“Are you guys cold? You can come back with me to my place if you want! Big bro is making fish stew, and we have like, towels and stuff!"

Funny thing was, that was the one thing you had completely neglected to bring with you.

“That does sound nice, Alula,” you gave her a wilted, albeit benign smile, drawing parallels to her sunniness with Jay. 

“I’m thinkin’ it’s about time we start heading back, actually,” Plight suggested dimly, gently rubbing your back, “Thanks for the offer, though. It’s really nice of you,” he nodded, picking himself up off the ground and packing up your belongings.

“Awww, already?” Alula pouted, skittering up the hill. “Fiiiiine. But if you ever come back though, we should play together!” she waved gleefully, fireflies spinning and whirling near-ethereally behind her.

"I live in the ruins nearby, don't forget about me, okay?"

You steadily rose up from the ground, clutching Plight’s coat almost defensively and wrapping yourself further into it. It held what was unmistakably his scent- you quite likedit.

“I promise I won't,” you called back out, watching her as she skipped across the marshfields expertly whilst humming an off-key tune. What a cute kid.

Once Alula was no longer visible from view, your attention shifted back over to Plight.

“You can have this back,” you sputtered, rather remorsefully removing the coat as your stomach constricted. “You deserve it more than me.”

“Oh, c’mon now-” Plight chuckled, finding the humor in your modesty. “Don’t be like that. I wouldn’t have handed it to you if I didn’t want you to use it.” he spoke very deliberately, as though there was some hidden meaning you were expected to decipher.

“The cold is nothing I can’t deal with,” The voice that left your mouth had sounded so distant you weren’t positive it even belonged to you, lips pursed into a tight frown. The very sensation of relinquishing him of his trademark article of clothing made you feel as though were infringing on something unspoken.

This was _his_ coat- something he wore almost every day of his goddamned life; the man even slept in it, sometimes. You were no longer locked in that contemptuous state of regarding the lamplighter with that wary variation of pity as you had in the past, it wasn’t something as imperious as being repulsed by the threadbare sleeves, but more that this was something that just went against the natural order of things. Something you didn’t have the right to touch.

_Like you weren’t worthy._

Perhaps your apprehension was infectious- you half-expected him to revoke his offer merely because of your callow stubbornness. You tentatively ran your fingers through the coat, pressing delicately against the fabric as though you feared it’d spontaneously burst into shreds if you held it the wrong way.

“Are you sure?” you croaked, “-That’s it’s okay, I mean. I don’t want to…” the words evaded you yet again at a circumstance most inconvenient, but you feared it’d be a detrimental course of action to outright refuse the offer.

“It’s fine, it really is,” Plight said hurriedly, trying his damnedest not to make eye contact. “T-The last thing I want is you getting a cold. I don’t get sick easily, so it’s fine if I just walk around like this,” he laughed in that warm baritone of his, and you suddenly felt yourself growing progressively sleepy.

“...Hey,” you mumbled as he helped you rise to your feet, “Let’s go over to Ling’s cafe. I wanna bug him for some hot chocolate.”

“He’s going to think we’re crazy for ordering that in this type of weather,” Plight said, guiding you back towards the city gates.

“That’s alright,” you closed your eyes and exhaled, giggling a little stupidly to yourself as you wondered if you’d smell a little like the lamplighter, now, if you steeped in his jacket for so long. “I’m sorry this trip was sort of a bust. I feel like there’s... better things we could have done.”

“Eh,” Plight shrugged, unburdened by the thought. “I really can’t complain. It’s fun, just…” he gulped, scratching the back of his head as he craned his neck over towards the view of the city skyline, entranced by it’s glow.

“It’s never really boring bein’ with you. And I know that’s cheesy to hell and back, but...”

You laughed out, putting a hand to your mouth as the high of the situation kept you afloat. The lamplighter shot you a quizzical look, but he knew the authenticity behind your actions and eventually broke out into a lazy smile. He knew you better than that, and somehow knowing this irrevocable fact made you elated.

"It's fine, it's fine," you murmured, so ecstatic that you felt as though you were fit to burst. His eyes were so bright, so lustrous in it's sheen that it seemed right to just sidle up next to him, watching the Refuge clamor beneath the two of you as for the first time in a long while, the ruby glow of the lively city was no longer such an irritating eyesore. It almost seemed beautiful, watching it all with the lamplighter.

_"I feel the same way."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... this one def took longer than expected. I nearly died when I saw that this sloppy chapter was about 6k words long, I sure as heck didn't intend for that to happen at all? Regardless, I'm sorry I took so long with this chapter! I struggled a lot to get it done, and I'm sure it was easy to tell which parts I had difficulty with since I... unmistakably flubbed sections of the chapter. 
> 
> I'm sorry if Alula was introduced only briefly- I wanted the cute birb to make an appearance at least once!
> 
> Thanks again to all the people who have sent me kind words of encouragement- you really helped motivate me in chugging this one out! ;u; You all are so precious to me, and I'm grateful you've stuck around for this long!
> 
> Once again, please feel free to let me know if I've made any mistakes or errors and I'll gladly fix them! Also, Plight's "actual" name is based off [this](http://nightmargin.tumblr.com/post/153857623221/i-drew-the-new-guy-this-is-actually-my-first-time%0A) post and probably isn't his canon name. I don't think he even has one, I just referenced this post as like a throwback??


	9. Raining in my Head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE IT IS. 2 MONTHS OF WAITING AND I GIVE YOU THE MOST DISAPPOINTING CHAPTER IN THE FIC.
> 
> Hah, I'm just kidding. _Every_ chapter of this fic is a huge disappointment. :^)
> 
> But please, trust me on this one and play [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vQZM-FPSUlA) in the background as you read. I promise you won't regret it. c:

It’d been a long while since the Refuge was graced with a pleasant dosage of rainfall.

The soothing patter of raindrops against the large windows further contributed to the somber, mellowed atmosphere of the diner that evening, cascading off the glass in neon streaks of violet. The spectacle was hypnotic and proved to be a sufficient method of distraction as the downpour had warded off the bulk of the customers, enabling a more easygoing shift in comparison to the summer rushes you struggled to conduct.

The only complaint you had was that it made you feel a bit sleepy. It made it a little harder to stay on your toes.

Only a small number of the patrons remained, thankfully, idly and contentedly watching the sky fall from within the safety of the indoors. The flat-screen television set that hung proudly in one corner of the restaurant was tuned down to a comforting drivel, the forecast continuing onwards despite the appropriate lack of an audience present in the room.

 

**“Summer storm fast approaching from Barrens shores, second flooding expected to hit Glens tomorrow afternoon-”**

 

You paid loose attention to the forecast with half-hearted interest, bemused with the task of texting Plight behind the podium where the cameras couldn’t _quite_ see that you were fiddling around with your phone and otherwise shirking your duties. He was complaining for the umpteenth time that shift about how the rainwater had seeped into the jars, diluting the liquid phosphor and lessening their effectiveness of lighting the avenue. Plight lamented how he’d be inevitably reprimanded for this, despite the fact that literally none of it was really something he held any control over.

You sighed.

“Summer storm” was of course, a more family-friendly and partially inaccurate term that had essentially translated to “typhoon”. Even storms here were considered benign to an extent; while typhoons were on their own personal tier of destruction. Figured that the Refuge dealt with a record-breaking heatwave and a massive storm all in one month, as if things weren’t bad enough already.

While a day or two of drizzling rain would have done wonders for the outskirt farms and what little gardening hobbyists remained, a typhoon warranted more rain than what would have been deemed necessary. There wouldn’t have been a drought to counteract the excess water, _obviously,_ and that bit about the Glens apparently at risk of flooding _twice_ didn’t exactly sit well with you, either.

Your thoughts drifted back over to the child you befriended last week on the trip outside the walls with the lamplighter. Alula, you think it was. The little thing couldn’t have been older than 6 or 7, surely, and you found yourself combating the mounting concern on whether or not she’d really be safe with such unholy volumes of rainwater that torrented across their homeland. Traversing the Glens and steering clear of the massive puddles and sinkholes were a challenging feat in itself- not to mention that the entire place was virtually an island upheld by a series of overgrown vines that had yet to wither.

Who's to say it wasn’t just a matter of time? _How could you be so sure that this storm wouldn’t be the last nail in the coffin?_

Gah. You were making yourself feel anxious, again.

The gentle pour outside had suddenly become intimidating to the ears, it’s presence very much a threatening promise of Mother Nature’s two-faced demeanor. Plopping the phone back into your apron pocket, you whisked up a half-empty pot of coffee from the stand and strolled out into the dining room to refill any depleted mugs, smiling over to the lingering customers in hopes that upon achieving peak satisfaction with your performance, they’ll be more inclined to scram.

You just barely missed one, actually, as you turned the corner and silken sheets of cherry-red entered your field of vision. She was tucked away into a blind spot, well-hidden and seated at your favorite texting booth whilst hunched over her bacon and eggs rather gloomily. Taking that as your cue to step in and offer valid solutions to remedy a potential complaint, you skipped on over and folded your hands together in a dainty, almost pleading sort of gesture, throwing on your award-winning smile.

 _“How is everything here? Is the food alright to you?”_ You hummed as sweetly as you could muster, and the woman sat upwards out of alarm, her exasperated visage gradually blooming into a calming grin.

“O-Oh, yeah. It’s just fine, thank you,” a demure laugh escaped her cracked lips. It took you a bit for it to sink in.

“Miss Silverpoint?” you gawked, unused to the sight of the woman in anything but a messy bun and burnt apron.

For some strange, inexplicable reason, you were under the impression that her hair would have been… well, longer than this. You hadn't expected it to be so choppy. It had been cut unevenly as though the stylist had either been in a hurry or was just unbelievably incompetent, the ends frayed and a few of the loose, crimson strands sticking out here and there. You had the good sense not to comment, of course, but the poor scientist looked as if she had a hell week. A part of you was curious.

The other part of you simply knew better than that.

“Sorry, I… I didn’t recognize you for a minute, there. Did someone else seat you?”

“The sweet Glens girl, yeah,” the scientist nodded solemnly, staring absently into her cold cup of coffee. You felt as though you were intruding upon on something you really shouldn’t have been.

“Did the food come out wrong? I’d be more than happy to return it to the kitchen and redo the order if you’d like,” you suggested lightly, doubtful if that was really the issue at hand. The pleasantries would not easily dismiss itself from the deep-rooted habits that food service had hammered into you, but Kip seemed amused with it all on the outside. As if she too, could see through the act you display.

She laughed in that breathless, melodic giggle, practically angelic against the muted clangs of ceramic coffee mugs, indistinct background chatter and subdued raindrops now pounding rhythmically against the walls of the restaurant. You see through her almost immediately.

“Oh, that’s alright. I just misjudged my appetite before coming in,” she ran a hand through her scarlet locks, regarding you faintly with detached interest. Her mind was clearly roaming elsewhere, that much you could detect from the airy sigh her gaze expressed; the melancholic glint and weary disposition that was heavily reminiscent of Plight’s back when you had first gotten acquainted with him. The resemblance was uncanny.

It was starting to make you nervous.

Plight was the kind of man who wore his heart on his sleeve, contrary to his  pitiful attempts at veiling this inevitable fact- reading him was otherwise second nature to you. From what you could tell from Kip, however, she was molded remarkably close to yourself  in terms of mannerisms whilst performing  your job, and expertly hid whatever traces of hardship or exhaustion plagued underneath. She was cheerful, curt, and teeming with boundless energy.

When she smiled, it overflowed with a tender warmth so genuine and disarming that you couldn’t help but envision what truly lied behind it, if anything aside from a raw, ingenue desire to please lingered beyond the contours of her coral-pink lips.

When you smiled to a customer, it was out of the sheer concern that anything less than a sunny attitude and rosy disposition would earn you jeering scowls and sky-high stacks of complaints from people who just couldn’t be satisfied with anything anymore, always demanding more of you and insinuating that you were nothing less than impertinent in your attitude, even if you had bent over backwards for them. It was difficult to stay genuine, to love and cherish what you did because at the end of the day, all it meant to you was a paycheck and a way to stave off the boredom that ensued as you patiently awaited for the day that maybe, _just maybe_ that whole thing about the Messiah wasn’t a complete hoax and they really would arrive to herald the beginning of a new era.

When you smiled, it was to steel yourself and dissuade others.

 

_It was a survival tactic._

 

And that was precisely what you had seen in that moment with Kip Silverpoint.

Now, you didn’t know Kip particularly well. It was more accurate to say that you knew _of_ her, rather than that you knew her personally.  It was alarmingly easy to chalk up the entire situation as you reading too much into it, having such a shameless and fervent lack of restraint in meddling in the affairs of others. Funny enough, this was reminding you again of when you had first encountered Plight moping in his booth, when your instincts drove you foolishly towards the path of mercy when there was no logical reason you should have ever intervened. Well, aside from a sort of wrenching, near-suicidal desire to assist.

Then Plight wound up in your bed and accused you of trying to stab him. Good times.

Nefarious thoughts aside, you found yourself once again wrestling with the idea of whether or not you should try poking and prodding for answers you weren’t quite ready to receive. You couldn’t very well go pitying every poor sap that walked through those double doors- you had a lot of those waltz in each day and for the most part, you simply sent them off with a smile and a plastic box full of leftovers- and that was that. That bad habit of yours was going to get yourself way in over your head eventually, if you kept trying to play the chivalrous role with people whom you’ve only met a handful of times.

“That uh, storm though,” you managed, choking out a poor attempt at conversation.

Kip picked up on the attempt, taking gracious pity and going along with it. “That’s technically what it is, yeah,” her lips were pursed into a thin line, raspberry-painted nails shimmering with iridescence beneath the overhead phosphor lights.

“That’s going to pose a real issue back at the factory,” she declared glumly, shifting her legs.  “All that water is going to tamper with the phosphor concentration, so it’s going to a be a lot of work trying to get the levels back up to where they should be once it passes. Top that off with the more brittle infrastructure that have been neglected and the overall unpreparedness for the rising water levels, safety is going to become a concern and-” she was now muttering feverishly to herself, expression growing progressively more troubled before it soured entirely, then devolving into a broken sort of hopelessness that you felt partially responsible for.

 

_Good going, jackass._

 

You hummed sympathetically, glancing over your shoulder to check if a customer had squirmed in while you weren’t paying attention.

“Sound like there’s a lot of work on your plate, huh?” you eased your weight against the table and slid the coffee pot her way.

“Yeah,” she muttered,  grinning listlessly and pushing the plate away from her,  taking note of the coffee pot with a look you couldn’t decipher. “No end in sight. Guess that’s just how it goes, really,” she shrugged casually, dismissing the concern more for your sake than her own. You weren’t buying it.

Crossing your arms, you tapped the tip of your skidproof-shoes against the shaggy carpet.

“I uh, get that it’s an important job, but… I hope you’re not pushing yourself too hard with it all. Nothing is really worth huge amounts of stress, even if people are pushing you.” You felt a little like this type of careless advice might as well send her coursing off the edge of a ravine, but your half-assed attempt at concern appeared to garner some form of attention, shockingly enough.

Kip gazed over to you with a wondrous sheen in her ruby eyes, a smile breaking across her face before she bursted colorfully into a jovial fit of laughter, hiding her lips with a manicured hand and the oversized sleeve of her dark sweater.

You felt as though you had suggested something daft, and that perhaps the researcher was mocking you for your medicority. This proved not to be the case, as you don’t detect the faintest trace of anything coy woven into her tone when her lips begin to move.

“You’re the third person this week to tell me that,” she watched you inquisitively, “I hope it’s really not that obvious. I’ve been trying to get more sleep so I can get on top of things again, but this month has just been such a hassle, you know? I’m just so behind on everything, and people are hounding me left and right about all of it. I haven’t even had the time to write her any lett-” she halted herself abruptly, quickly derailing that train of thought.

You were more surprised that people still sent letters in this day and age. Still, there was something to be said about the nostalgic value of old-fashioned letter-sending. Possessing the good sense not to pry any further than you potentially already may have, you don’t delve into the topic that could have been.  

“Is taking a break just… not a thing? I mean, don’t get me wrong,” you cleared your throat, musing just how disastrously giving possibly-incorrect advice could do to someone with a reputable and prestigious position. You weren’t on the same cord as someone like her- for what purpose did it serve for her to waste her time listening to the advice of a modest server?

“I get that your job is important, yeah, but why not just take a break and let someone else handle it? It’s not fair for everything to be your problem, right? I don’t see why it’d be unreasonable if you maybe just… I don’t know. Take a step back for a bit, it can help you see things in a different perspective.” You shoved both hands inside of the apron pouch, fingers thumbing over the phone. It vibrated noisily as you did so- probably Plight hounding you to respond faster. You were sort of ignoring him in favor of chatting up a customer, after all.

The redhead sipped her coffee, gazing out the window contemplatively. “I did consider that, but I’m in charge of most of the current research projects and repairs. While suspending a few of them is plausible due to recent events, there’s just too much to be done. I can’t just neglect something like that, even if it would be nice for me to take a break,” she slunk deeper into her seat, trying very hard not to lose the battle with herself.

You peered down at your phone screen, making out the text “WHAT THE FUCK I’M LITERALLY SOAKED O-” before the alert bubble constraints had cut out the rest. You smiled at this, and diverted your focus back to Kip.

“So you’re sort of locked in place, then?”

She nodded sadly.

After mulling it over a bit, you threw tact to the winds and deduced you may as well tell her what you would have done in her place. After taking stock of the situation, outright admitting to her that she was imprisoned in a checkmate was quite detrimental to the entire act of playing the supportive third party.

“Just go for it,” you shrugged, and in that moment she had begun staring up at you in a baffled stupor, “ _It’s your life, too._ It’s good to know what comes first, but I think it’s pretty important to go after something you really want. It’s not something I think you should put off, especially with how badly things are going around here.”

Kip visibly winced at this, and you swiftly made attempts to amend the statement. “I-I’m not implying that’s anyone’s fault, but I’m… a-alright, look,” you exhaled gruffly, sliding yourself into the seat across from her and folding your hands atop the table, like you were going to start a lecture.

“You’re one of the smart folks. In fact, you are _the_ smart folk. You’re the world’s lead scientist right now, right? You know better than anyone else what’s happening here, so just give it to me straight. Do you think things going to get better for everyone, even if you were to kill yourself trying to pick the Refuge from off the ground?”

She appeared too mortified with this to answer, biting her bottom lip and making herself as small as possible. Had you not caught her off guard with such direct approach, you were certain she had an excuse at the ready to keep you at bay.

You exhaled through your nose and sat straight-backed atop the squeaky seat.

“My best friend was like that, too,” you began unevenly, astounded by how confidently you could proclaim Plight as the role of your ‘best friend’, when ‘only friend’ was a more definite term to pin him down as. “He’s wasted years just… blindly following the orders of other people and letting them work him to death. He didn’t know how to help himself, let alone trust that he could get himself out of it. It’s miserable I know, being in a position like that.”

Kip made no effort to meet your gaze, appearing transfixed with her plate of cold food. There was the unmistakable sparkle of wordless understanding in her eyes, however, the only real indicator that you hadn’t entirely encroached upon something you shouldn’t have dabbed into.

“...Sorry, I know I shouldn’t really be going off about things like that,” you muttered apologetically, silently pouring her a new cup of coffee right as it dawns on you that the entire pot must have gone completely lukewarm by now.

“No, you’ve got a point,” she responded, enchanted with some unseeable concept. “There’s little I can do now, but maybe, just maybe…”

You shimmied yourself out of the booth and reclaimed the coffee pot, restraining the urge to yawn with some effort. “If possible, think of it like this,” you brushed the bangs away from your eyes and gave the dining room another once-over, pleased to learn that the remaining patrons had silently dismissed themselves.

“Imagine that you only have one shot. Say that theoretically, you only had a single chance to do something, or had one shot to fix every little thing that happened that didn’t exactly go the way you wanted to, or turned out in a way you really didn’t like. You’d take it, right? Even knowing that it might have consequences, but it’s still a better alternative than accepting things as-is and staying dissatisfied with it?”

For a moment, you were thoroughly convinced that you’d seriously said something way out of line. The conversation petered out uncomfortably and loomed above with potent malignancy when Kip suddenly rocketed up from her spot, slinking herself out of the booth and hastily slapping a twenty-dollar bill onto the table.

“I have to get back to work now,” Kip trilled hurriedly, taking your hand in hers and clasping them firmly, fingers applying an unassuming and gentle pressure before she retracted completely.  “But…  it means a lot that you listened to me whine like that. The rest is a tip, but I’ll see you around, okay?” Her hands were so small and fragile that you worried one wrong move would crush them. You ponder what Plight would think if he held a hand this tiny-

...Hm. Plight holding the hand of someone who wasn't you. You instantly bristled at the thought.  
Her eyes glittered like evening stars as she spun out into the pouring rain and down the radiant street of phosphor lampposts, waving her arm gleefully in the air before disappearing further down the vendor’s boardwalk, all before the magenta glow of the city had swallowed her whole.

You may have just suggested something potentially dangerous to her, but it was anyone’s guess as to if the seeds you’ve very carelessly sown would ever bear fruit at all. You were leaning more towards no, but that was likely just the pessimism talking over you.  
You waved back, watching her form dissipate and taper into the long shadows cast by the rosy, omniscient skyscrapers.

You hadn’t noticed that entire time as you’d been so absorbed in the morbid conversation with Kip that the rainfall had devolved into a vehement downpour, crashing down thunderously atop the slick pavement. Plucking up her plate of untouched food and mourning over the wasted strips of some perfectly good bacon, you deposited the entire thing into the sink before you trot sleepily out from the kitchen and roosted yourself behind the podium.

You wandered around the restaurant aimlessly less than a minute after, finding no enjoyment in frothing amidst your own restlessness. The diner had gone quiet, but the world outside was anything but still. It felt as though time had reached a pristine standstill when you spoke with Kip, when in reality you’d only burned through about ten minutes at most. Jay wasn’t yet back from her designated break, and even with the lingering knowledge of another person’s presence in the diner ringing in the back of your head, you felt…

 

_Alone._

 

There were no customers to tend to, no small talk or meaningless laughter to inject the air with robust fallacy. You twitched and ached, curling yourself into the booth where Kip was seated and crammed yourself as far back into the corner as you could. Plight hadn’t responded after you’d shot back something behind the counter.

It was finally beginning to dawn on you why Plight had been so dour those many months ago, back when you performed spring-cleaning on lunatic mode. The gravity of the situation didn’t truly register then, how deep down the chasm had traveled. How much those little interactions with Plight meant to him, and just how dependent he’d grown on all of it. He fed off of your attention more than the discounted meals you flung his way, as if the only he continued to bother with the pressure of it all was because at the end of the horizon, he had you waiting patiently on the other side.

He _needed_ you.

And here you were, unable to articulate the significance of this epiphany as the storm brewed onward in your heart, lost in thoughts all alone when you realize that you needed him, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, though. It's been over 2 months since the last update. 
> 
> I apologize deeply to those who were waiting- only to see this chapter and go "Wow, Bunny! Literally none of this is relevant at all and you're terrible!!" Because you're right about me lol
> 
> This was a shorter (and boring) set-up chapter in comparison to the usual events I write, but I do assure you that there's going to be a LOT happening very soon. The primary reason for this chapter in the first place was to make a point about the reader/MC, whom I was terrified about portraying blandly. It does connect later on with events though, so I do hope you have some confidence that there's a method to my madness. :O
> 
> I reorganized the story board and... well, this fic is going to be a lot more dramatic than the cute fluff I originally intended. Oops. 
> 
> The next chapter is already in progress, however! I give a huge thank you to those who encouraged me and left such loving words behind about the fic! I assure you it hasn't been forgotten or abandoned, and it's still the one I have the most fun writing! 
> 
> I'll try not to be so slow lmao, depression is one hell of a drug kiddos


	10. Neon Lights and Cold Nights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n08b1ptdnYM) is the background music for this chapter. Pairing this with rainymood will get the ideal mood goin' on~
> 
> Not very relevant, but I finally got around to drawing Jay! You can see art of her [here](http://2-bae.tumblr.com/image/163179761778) if you wish!

The moment couldn’t have arrived any faster when Plight had barreled awkwardly through the front door, shoes squeaking against the small-squared tiles by the podium with each weary step.

You didn’t even think twice to consider just how pathetic it might have looked when you shot out like you did, all too eager to bunny-hop over to his side. In reality, you weren’t actually expecting a visit from him at all this evening, since the restaurant was notably out of the way from his Thursday routes. While the inherent attraction to caffeine failed to sway his hard-headed judgment, you expected him to wise up and just head home for the day since the weather had cranked the dial up to 11.

You were still glad he was here. Worried sick about his health and what the storm would do him, sure, but relieved all the same that he showed up. For all you knew, he might have just been seeking shelter. This might have had nothing to do with you.  


“Fuck, dude,” he growled, whipping the hat from off his head and brushing the droplets from his matted hair.

Poor Plight was absolutely _soaked_ down to the bone. His clothes had been dripping wet, hanging heavily over his body as a puddle began pooling at his feet from the sheer volume of water that his coat had been sponging up.

“It’s really comin’ down out there,” Plight remarked, as though this hadn’t yet been brought to your attention. His condition alone was a reliable testament to the cruel and unusual weather that raged outside.

“I didn’t notice it was that bad,” you lied in his favor, throwing the window an uninterested glance before ushering Plight into his favorite booth, several seats away from the view of the television screen.

“Need a menu?”

Plight was a bit of a wild card in the sense that you could never flawlessly predict what his orders were going to be. They followed a particularly carnivorous pattern, though, so you could always manage to narrow it down to a few reliable options when you made a game of it. Even that in itself waned depending on his mood, however, so you wound up abandoning the prospect entirely to make it easier on yourself.

“Nah,” he began worming himself out of his coat, grimacing at how uncomfortably the damp fabric was clinging to his skin. Your gaze lingered a bit longer than it should have. “Got it memorized by now.” He playfully tapped a chin, before-

“Let me get a fuckin’, uhh…

“Oh, you are NOT pulling that one on me,” you wailed exasperatedly, absently clicking the fine-point pen in your pocket while waiting for Plight to articulate his order.

The unspeakable noise Plight exuded was some horrendously awkward mish-mash of a chuckling and a failed attempt at a snort.

“It’s like, I want coffee, but...” he fiddled with the idea, recovering from whatever the heck had just recently transpired.

“But it’s also 3 in the morning,” you asserted cheekily, “So that might not be a great idea.

“Meh,” he griped, still wrangling with his own garments.

You thought for a moment, half-tempted to lock the door from the inside so nobody else could slip in.

“...Give me a few minutes, actually. I’ll hook you up with something.”

You plopped the empty notepad away and turned on a heel into the kitchen, ducking behind the stove and scouting the perimeter for the chefbot in case he’d chase you out. Stingy little guy.

You weighed out the pros and cons of giving Plight hot chocolate as substitute for his usual poison of choice, though the act of pre-heating the saucepan and rummaging through the shelves for materials was already a direct statement of where your favor truly leaned towards. Because you know, sugar was totally a great alternative to caffeine. Go, you!

You ultimately stuck with a personal recipe rather than the pre-packaged nonsense that was enforced at your workplace, since the latter was not only extraordinarily cost-effective, but time efficient. Two vital things the higher-ups valued above all else, you bitterly mused, health and safety included.

Gently humming the first song that came to mind, you whisked the cocoa and sugar into the pan before adding the teaspoons of milk, fumbling a bit with the recipe and precise measurements as you strained to recall if it was either 2 or 3 tablespoons that should have added. You supposed more couldn’t hurt, since Plight had it in him to consume multiple servings on his own.

Either way, a little treat like this wasn’t going to kill him. Plight wasn’t diabetic (you made damn sure to check with his doctor before you sent any desserts to his table) so that was one concern you could safely cross off the list.

Wait, was it… medium low, or medium high once you added the rest of the milk? You were under the gnawing impression that it should have been boiling  faster than this, but you couldn’t exactly whip out your phone to check when the cameras were located in the bottom left corner of the kitchen. Of course they wedged the sucker up there in the ideal blind spot; higher-ups weren’t really as dumb as they led themselves on to be.

You supposed since the recipe was technically still a work in progress, a miscalculation or two was excusable for now. You poured the contents of the saucepan into one of the larger mugs, topping it off with a generous spiral of whip cream and gently threw on a pinch of chocolate sprinkles to make the concoction more aesthetically pleasing. Not that it had really mattered to Plight in the end, but execution still mattered! You only wished you had some prettier confections in stock for the season to at least bump it up to award-winning status, but alas, the midsummer provided very little in the way of seasonal platters. Which was… surprising, given it was a season of great monetary gain. Summer vacation usually meant more people with too much free time and money burning in their pockets.

Oh well.

You skittered on out and slid the mug over, swiping a bit of stray whip cream off your index finger with your tongue. Not a very professional display, but you were in good spirits, here. Had there been other patrons abound with their beady little eyes and haughty glares,  you would have thought twice before doing something that was, according to the employee handbook, considered unsanitary.

“Fancy stuff,” Plight wolf-whistled, eyeing your handiwork with reverence.  


“I may have, uh… messed up, sort of. Just  a word of warning.”  


Plight dipped in a spoon and slowly stirred the contents, regarding the beverage in a manner that wasn’t quite critical, but very mindful of the warning you graced upon them.  


“So long as you didn’t mix in curry powder instead of cocoa,” he said, finally taking a swig. While secretly delighted that your offering had seemingly passed his quality check,  his last remark made your stomach unsettled at the mention.

“Oh please, _please_ tell me there’s a story behind that,” you chuckled excitedly and took the seat opposite of him, elbows propped up on the table. “We don’t even have that stuff, here. Chili powder, I think, but the color is totally different. I wouldn’t mess up that hard, trust me on that one.”  


“Good on you,” he chortled, “-cuz I most certainly did, once.” Plight set the mug down and blew away the whirling steam, the sweet scent lofting over. “Tried to help a buddy of mine with the flu years back. He uh... didn't appreciate the mistake, but his nose wasn't stuffed up anymore after that.”

“Dude.” You snickered, eyeballing the window studiously in such a manner that most people would have felt inclined to backpedal out if they saw how badly you wanted to be left alone.

The atmosphere was no longer the same, asphyxiating haze at it had been minutes before, though the oppressive and intruding rainfall lingered to blot the otherwise would-be tranquil stillness that had engulfed the two of you. You gazed out onto the boardwalk, across the street into the distance where somewhere, just beyond the rolling morning mist of the gentle sea, lied the ever-present silhouette of the imposing Factory and its cold machinery.

“...The head researcher showed up today,” you began conversationally, making out the opaque shapes of the lampposts obscured in the fog. They were like miniature lighthouses, tall and radiant amidst the weaving summer gloom that blossomed beneath the waves.

Plight took another, more resigned sip.  


“Dr. Silver- somethin’?” he tested. “Or one of the other mooks?”  


“Silverpoint,” you corrected benignly, kindly motioning with a finger around Plight’s mouth. “- you’ve got a lil’ something there-”  


“I-I got it,” he padded the leftover cream away with his jacket, the wet plop audible as he set it down. You couldn’t help but smile.  


“Yeah. Short red hair, safety goggles on her head,” you browsed down the mental checklist of descriptors to use, but the name alone would probably get the point across. You didn’t think there was a single soul within the Refuge who didn’t know who she was. Leading researcher and all that jazz- heaven only knew the ungodly amount of pressure that entailed with such an esteemed title. It almost made you feel grateful that you’d completely tanked the chem portion of the final semester in Junior year. You retook it twice before bombing that, too, and the counselor just took pity and switched you back into Bio. The only thing you ever retained from that regardless, was learning that mitochondria was the powerhouse of a cell.  


You know, knowledge you could clearly exploit to the fullest extent as a member of the waitstaff. Ugh.  


“Yeah, I’ve seen her around. Only really spoke to her a handful of times,” Plight adjusted the straps of his suspenders, a careful pause partitioning his words. “...Short hair, huh? Thought it was longer at some point. Maybe. I dunno,” he waved off the detail drearily, “I can’t trust my own faulty memory nowadays.”

Was it really? Not that you could ever really tell, bun and all, but…  


“No kidding?” you marveled, picturing the woman with long, flowing tresses. “Guess she cut it or something, then. Wouldn’t want her hairdresser’s number, though.”  


“Yeah,” he sighed murkily and with just enough deliberation that you couldn’t quite let the subject drop then and there, not with your curiosity nagging you.  


There was a solemn reflection flickering in his eyes; a withering candlelight. His mouth upturned into a wry grin, the shrill clinking of a spoon against ceramic splitting the mood.  


“High-pressure job and all. It’s never a good sign when the smart folks start to worry,” he murmured thoughtfully, “Being the maintenance guy sucks like hell, but at least it isn’t entirely gonna be my fault if the world kicks the bucket I couldn’t find a solution. That’s the good thing about folks like me- all we gotta stress about is the small stuff. Course, dealing with a lot of small stuff too can get overwhelming with time.”  


While that could have been provoked more delicately, you think, Plight didn’t seem particularly miffed at your indelicacy of pushing the topic.  


“It all starts adding up, in the end,” you nodded sagely.  


“She’s hung up on something, I think,” Plight sniffed, casting the empty mug to the side and tugging loosely at his shirt collar. “Don’t know what, though. Never asked. It’s none of my business,” he spoke so casually, dismissing the concern with a vigilant mulishness.

"You think so?" you blinked, curious as to how he'd ever draw that conclusion.   


“...You think she has second doubts about everything?” You proposed, “As in, maybe she… doesn’t really want to be in charge of all of this, anymore? It’s kind of a lot for one person. Even if the responsibility is split between a bunch of the other scientists, I still think it’s too much.”  


Metaphorically speaking, the Refuge was a golden cage. It would be unanimously agreed upon on that a person would find themselves to be much happier locked inside of this crimson cradle than be miserable trapped outside of it. Therein lied the prominent issue of living here all your life; you knew every street corner, alleyway,  and apartment complex down to the numbers and zip codes.  


You knew the Refuge like the back of your hand. And in possessing such knowledge, you felt trapped.

 

You knew there was nowhere to run. That there was nowhere to hide when pandemonium inevitably breaks loose one day, when the Messiah never arrives and it’s the realistic bad ending scenario you tried very hard to keep locked away in the back of your mind-  


Maybe Kip Silverpoint had realized that, too. Perhaps she was as much of a cornered rat as you and Plight had always been.

The lamplighter groaned low to himself, exhaling glumly.

“If you ask me, none of this is really worth the effort,” he peered into the mug, “Because all we’re doing is pretending nothing bad is happening. We’re making do with the fact that everything is shit, and trying to make a living when there’s no worthy end result. I mean, same goes for me, too. Do I want this lousy job when the lamps keep extinguishing every other minute? No. But do I have a choice?” he strained, leering.  


“ _No, I don’t. There’s always going to be bad times that’ll wake you up to the good stuff you weren’t paying attention to,”_ he looked over towards the rain-streaked windowpane, trickling in luminous gradients of pink and purple.  


Aaaaaand that was your cue to cut the conversation short.  


“Wow, that’s... pretty profound of you,” you hurriedly praised, mouth agape in blissful awe.  


The lamplighter sized you up with a cautionary gaze.  


“Uh… what?”

“You know, like...  what you said. It was kinda insightful.” You elaborated further but to no avail, making a strange gesture with your hands as if that would somehow get the point across more fluidly. “I mean. Pessimistic, yeah, but it sounded cool.”  


“You’re acting like I know what some of those words mean,” he guffawed.  


Well, he got bonus points for trying.  


“I was trying to give you a compliment,” you gave a wanton huff and crossed your arms, tossing your hair back in an impish display of melodrama.  


“You and your dictionary words, I swear,” he mock-wallowed in tandem with your comical lament.

The little diner erupted brightly with your sonorous laughter, the cacophony drowning out the distant sound of the storm’s persistent fury.  


“Mmm, I’m really going to hate the jog home in this weather,” you grumbled dolefully, dejectedly observing the petite rapids swamping past the dips in the street corners before channeling into the storm drains, off the metal platforms overlooking the velvet docks.  


The buses weren’t in service this time of day, much to your disappointment. Graveyard shifts for you meant a clock-out time of 4 in the morning, too early for a gracious serving of the sane customers to arrive but also, too inconveniently early in the day for anything else to be operating. The first one didn’t arrive at the stop until 6 in the morning, and waving down a taxi had a high probability of resulting in them just switching their lights off. Nobody was going to want to drive in treacherous weather like this.

“You can’t do that,” Plight spoke suddenly with a jarring, foreign urgency unbeknownst to you. You turned to place assurance before the words dropped dead where they stood, his expression the most grave you’ve ever seen.  


“...Huh?” You blubbered, uncomprehending. Plight’s visage softened a little, as if compensating for the muffled outburst. He took in a deep breath, ruby eyes shaded beneath an inauspicious sheen.  


“I-I mean. You shouldn’t. It’s… that’s not a great idea. You live on the upper floors, right?” He verified, the assertiveness unnerving to you.  


“Yeah,” you affirmed, squirming uncomfortably,  “Same place as always.”  


Another, longer silence battered you relentlessly over the head as you mentally rewound the entire conversation in your head as though a VHS, scouring every vowel and syllable for anything malicious that might have tipped off just why Plight had abruptly switched gears.  


“You should just stay at my place for now,” he suggested, though ‘suggest’  was a disarmingly lighter tone to describe the truth of how he phrased it. It was more of a frenzied decisiveness. “Ground levels are safest. The skywalks are known to snap under pressure, and the metal is gonna be slippery to walk on. The grating can even give out on you,” he began spouting, the most informative you’ve even known him to be.

This all seemed so unwarranted, so alien to you that you couldn’t help but push back a little.  


“I’ll be fine,” you insisted petulantly, “You know I’m one of those grossly careful types. I can watch my step.”  


“It isn’t up to you what happens up there,” he jabbed back with a dour expression so feral you could sparsely decipher the same person as the Plight you knew. “ _Accidents can happen, I’ve seen it with my own two eyes.”_ he spat back with panicked fortitude.

He… wasn’t exactly wrong, in a sense. Heat made things brittle; that was just a grade school-leveled knowledge of science even you could comprehend. When something unused to immense heat comes into contact with a cooling agent, which was in this case, the aggressively-pouring rain, things were more likely to break. In similar fashion were the coffee pots, which if still high in temperature after being filled with hot coffee for so long, were known to crack or shatter if put under cold, running water. You’ve actually lost a fair amount that exact same way.  


You felt sick all of a sudden, the urge to retaliate bled dry from your body.

From your peripheral vision, you spotted your co-worker stick out a jovial leg out onto the dining room, behold the scene for about a good 5 seconds, and doing a full 180 to retreat back into the office. Smart move, Jay.

“Right,” you chimed hoarsely, absently smoothing out the wrinkles in your uniform. “I didn’t consider that, sorry.” Wait, why were _you_ the one apologizing, here?

As if the weight of it all had just now plunged him beneath the surface, he shot you wide-eyed, apologetic look.

“Oh no, it’s- I mean. You couldn’t have-” he floundered the endeavor to amend his unforeseen attitude, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to hold it against him.

“Dammit, I’m sorry if I came off as a dick. I just can’t- I don’t want anything bad to happen to you,” Plight corrected himself, audibly restrained by something other than the immense guilt of his of his tactlessness.

You detected something very faintly wafting from the aura he emanated, something you were too acutely perturbed by to consider requesting him to specify further. You just wanted this conversation end, and fast.   


“Thank you,” the response was automated, only half-way genuine. You felt like you’d been punched square in the gut. As though you've done something horribly, _horribly_ wrong.

“I won’t be imposing?” you said, refraining from making eye contact.

“Not at all,” he piped back, “A-And sorry if it’s… creepy of me to ask, it’s just-”

“It’s fine,” you forced, displeased by how ungenuine it had sounded. "You're just worried, right?"

“...Yeah,” he shook, breathless. The color had drained completely from his face, and you've never seen him look so frightened of something in all his life. 

In the end, that was enough.

Exhaling a deep breath and producing a cell phone from your pocket, you slid out from the seat with the empty mug in tow. Plight doesn’t so much as look at you.

“I’m off in 15 minutes,” you announced, less energetic than you had been minutes before, “I just need to get some things cleaned up and we can go to your place.”  


With muted acceptance and an anxious nod, the lamplighter waited patiently and willed for the end to approach a little faster.

  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huh. I think I'm dragging this arc on much too long. 
> 
> I again had that issue of "this chapter is getting too long, so i'll break it into multiple ones" and boy, lemme tell ya. It is NOT working for me at all. Sorry again for the slowness, I've hit a really rough patch this month that I'm doing my honest best to recover from. 
> 
> I've been getting pretty upset with my writing, actually, because I'm starting to notice that my style is no longer consistent. It's been sort of breaking apart, and I think that's mostly due to the fact that I'm growing increasingly more impatient with how I write. I feel like I'm getting worse, which is... y'know. Horrifying. 
> 
> Sorry again if this chapter was yet another disappointment for you guys, I'm doin' what I can to keep the story going!!!


End file.
